


A Father Too Close

by onlyashesremain



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, bbc - Fandom, johnlock - Fandom, parentlock - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Death, Drugs, Fluff, Kidnapping, Love, M/M, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 02:44:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyashesremain/pseuds/onlyashesremain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After spending three years alone, thinking that Sherlock Holmes was dead, John Watson is stunned to discover that not only is his friend alive and well, but has a proposal: to adopt a son. </p>
<p>Only a month after the adoption, Hamish is abducted by none other than Sebastian Moran, the new leader of the late James Moriarty's web of criminals.</p>
<p>Can Sherlock Holmes stay detached enough to find the criminal before his son is murdered? <br/>Will John Watson find a way to use his courage to protect his new family?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**One.                                                                                                                          February 14**

               The flat was dim in the pre-dawn light as John Watson sat down at his laptop to write in his blog for the first time in three years. He stared at the flashing cursor inside of the empty text box with his steaming cup of tea sitting next to his laptop. He briefly attempted to read through some of his old adventures that he had had with the world’s one and only consulting detective, but stopped when he felt the familiar pain pierce his heart. John took a deep breath and closed his eyes as his fingers began to type.

              _Holidays are the hardest for me it seems. Any holiday, really, but today is one of the absolute worst. All of the happy couples that will soon be filling the streets of London, running around, holding hands, kissing in public. It breaks my heart all over again._

               _I met a girl, a woman, a couple of weeks ago. Mary. She’s pleasant enough. Pretty in her own way. I feel guilty not spending today with her. But in all honesty, if I were to take her out tonight, take her to dinner, I would end up spending the entire evening thinking about_

               John stopped and stared at what he had written, unable to finish his last thought, unable to type his name. He took a sip of his tea and began again.

_Anyway, that would be cruel of me to do to her. Unfair._

_This holiday, with all of its red, it has me thinking of_ him _. Maybe this is morbid, but I have come to find that red reminds me mostly of blood. There was so much of it that day. The day he_

               John stopped again. How would he ever learn to say _his_ name if he couldn’t even type it?

_My therapist is of course concerned by this. She has been insisting for weeks now that I pick this blog back up. But I don’t really see the point. There are no cases anymore. There are just the incoherent ramblings of an old military doctor about the man he_

               _Right, back to the holidays. This one in particular. All of the love and romance that will be filling the air today makes me want to hole myself in a dark corner of this flat until it’s over. This is my third Valentine’s Day without_ him _. The first one actually took me by surprise. I never expected to feel that alone. That. Broken. I actually thought that Valentine’s Day would be an easy holiday. After all, Sher_

               John stopped. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t say, type, or even think about his name without the pain returning to his chest. He hit the backspace key four times before he continued.

he _and I were not a couple, if anyone out there still cares. We were just flatmates, colleagues, even friends when he wasn’t pushing me away. But it wasn’t until that first Valentine’s Day that I even considered, I even toyed with the idea that maybe I, maybe I_

               John was getting frustrated. Every time he tried to start over with a new thought, it always led back to the one he wanted so desperately to forget. He was going to finish this thought, even if it meant dying from the pain in his chest.

_loved_

               He covered his face with his hand. Despite what he was typing, he had never put _him_ and the word _love_ even in the same thought in his mind. It was more that he had acknowledged the feeling. John sighed deeply, forcing back the pressure that was building both in his chest and behind his eyes. He would finish this sentence.

_him._

               _Mycroft invited me to join_ him _and Greg for dinner tonight. But there is no sense in going out, feeling the way I do, making everybody worry about me. It is bad enough the way I make Mrs. Hudson worry. She only really comes into the lounge to turn the lights on when the sun starts to set. She gave up trying to cook for me a long time ago, and even talking to me for that matter. The last time we spoke, she suggested cleaning out his room so that some bloke, some man that isn’t_

               John scratched the back of his head and ran his fingers through his disheveled hair before continuing.

 _someone that isn’t_ him _, could rent out the room. I’ll admit that I snapped, much like the first day she and I met. And much like that day, I apologized immediately after. I have to be the first to go in there and I have to be the one that cleans out all of his things. I know it needs to be done. I know that I need to box up all of his shirts and scarves. But how can I possibly manage that? I haven’t even repapered the lounge wall where_ he _spray-painted. But that bright yellow smiley face with the bullet holes in it, well, it makes me smile when I look at it. I smile back at it because I know_ he _did once._

               A small text box appeared in the lower right hand corner of John’s computer screen. He looked at it and moved his mouse down to close out of the window before he was stopped short.

    ** _DOWNLOADING MESSAGE…_**

**:)** **  
**

               John stared at the computer, confused by the message box. He had just been talking about the smiley face, but the blog hadn’t been posted to the website yet. The only way somebody could know what he was typing now would be if they were standing over his shoulder or if he had been hacked. There was no identification of the sender. John clicked the X to close the box and tried to regain focus on his blog. The sun had fully risen over the city outside and his tea sat untouched in the same spot on the desk, cold now. The message box reappeared before he could begin again.

               ** _DOWNLOADING MESSAGE…_**

                        _I thought you might smile back. I thought you might smile because I did._

               John again stared at the message box, longer this time. He briefly considered replying, but instead he sat there, staring.

               ** _DOWNLOADING MESSAGE…_**

_Did you really love him?_

               John sighed heavily, rubbing the ache in his chest. He began typing, asking to be left alone. Halfway through his request, he slammed the backspace key aggressively, deleting the entire message. He began again, hesitantly.

              ** _JW:_**     _Yes, I did_

               He took a deep breath. There was no sense in lying to somebody that could hack your computer and see everything that you’ve ever done with your laptop.

               ** _JW:_**    _I do. I’m sorry, but I can’t talk about this with you, whoever you are. I’m trying to have a life after him. So if you wouldn’t mind, please stop asking questions that are none of your business._

               John stood from his seat at his old flatmate’s desk and walked into the kitchen to pour his cold tea down the sink.

               **_DOWNLOADING MESSAGE…_**

                        _I love you too.  –SH_

               The message box disappeared from the screen, leaving only John’s open blog on the monitor. John returned from the kitchen with a fresh cup of tea. He smiled sadly, realizing that he actually did want somebody to talk to about _him_. He sat back down at the desk and began typing again.

               _Where was I? Oh yes, I was rambling. Yesterday, I met a boy in town. He couldn’t have been more than ten years old, asking me for some spare change. I looked for his parents, but he appeared to be alone, hungry. My pockets were empty, but I did have enough in the bank to buy him lunch._

_Ironically enough, his name was Hamish. There aren’t many out there that I share that name with. But what really caught my attention about this boy was how much he reminded me of_

               He still couldn’t manage to type his name. Though this time he imagined the face of the man that haunted him. The image was quickly distorted to that last image that John had of _him_ , one covered in blood.

               _He had shaggy, curly brown hair that was in desperate need of a comb. He had the same bright blue eyes. And he was so, so smart for his age. I could have sat there and talked with him for hours. It broke my heart when I found out that he was an orphan. With the right upbringing, the right parents to guide him, he could become something extraordinary._

_**DOWNLOADING MESSAGE…**_

_323 Prince Regent Lane_

            John stared at the message box. He considered looking up the address on the web. For a brief moment, that old surge of excitement flared again in his gut. He had been bored for the last three years. But this, this was sort of exciting.

              _**DOWNLOADING MESSAGE…**_

_Come at once if convenient._

            John stopped mid-sip. Only one person had ever sent him a message like that and _he_ was… dead. “Who the bloody hell is this,” he said out loud to nobody in particular.

              _**DOWNLOADING MESSAGE…**_

_If inconvenient, come anyway._

               John slowly set his tea on the desk, staring intently at his computer. He refused to allow himself to hope.

               **_DOWNLOADING MESSAGE…_**

_Could be dangerous. –SH_

               John stood abruptly, knocking the desk chair on its back. He grabbed his coat off of the hook and slipped on his shoes, making his way for the front door of 221B Baker Street. He had a cab hailed before he was even fully out the front door, not bothering to lock it behind him. Giving the address to the cabbie as he climbed in the backseat, John’s mind raced over the messages that he had received. By the time the cab pulled over to a curb half an hour later, John was desperate and anxious. His heart was beating out of his chest; his fingers were drumming on his knees as his feet shook and bounced in his anticipation. He was a bundle of nerves cooped up in that back seat. As the taxi pulled slowly to the curb, John thought that he was going to come out of his skin. But looking at the three story tall building, John was suddenly frozen to the seat. What if it wasn’t who he was expecting, who he was hoping for, but rather some cruel joke? But what if somehow, by some miracle, it was _him_? What if _he_ wasn’t actually dead? But that was impossible. John had seen him jump. He had seen his best friend leap off of a building to his death. He had touched him. John paid the driver and climbed out of the cab. The sun shining over the top of the building was blinding. It cast a dark shadow over the yard that his vision could not penetrate. As he stepped into the shadows, he saw two figures standing at the right corner of the building under a large Plane tree. One of the figures belonged to a child, the other to a tall, slender man. John stopped before he was close enough to be able to identify either figure. At his hesitation, the shorter of the two, the child, ran towards John. It wasn’t long before John recognized the boy as Hamish.

               “Hamish, what are,” he hesitated. “Is this your orphanage?” John asked, gesturing towards the building. “Are you the one that brought me here?”

               “No, it was him,” Hamish said pointing to the man still standing under the tree. “He said if you came today I could go home with you. He said we’d be a family. Is it true? Can we be a family?”

               “I’m not sure what you mean. Who is that man?” John asked, finally looking back up at the shadowed man. John watched as the other figure slowly, carefully began walking towards him and Hamish. When the man was only 20 meters away, Hamish dashed across the yard and took the other man by the hand, dragging him closer to John.

               “You bloody sod,” John whispered when he was finally standing face to face with those light blue eyes that he had been dreaming of for the last three years.

               “Hello, John. Happy Valentine’s Day,” said Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

**Two**.

                           John couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe. The pain in his chest was suffocating him. All he could do was stare. Without realizing his actions, he balled his left hand into a tight fist. He took a single step in Sherlock’s direction.

 

                           “John, not in front of the child, please,” said Sherlock, as he watched John’s movements carefully. His words didn’t seem to register. “Hamish, would you go back inside, please? John and I will be in in a bit.”

                           “Yes Mr. Sherlock,” replied Hamish. The interaction between the two finally pulled John out of his revere. He watched as Hamish practically sprinted back inside the building before he turned his attention back to Sherlock. John’s expression remained a mixture of disbelief and confusion.

                           “Okay, you’ve got questions,” said Sherlock in that same tone of nonchalance that he had used the night of their first case. John let out a short burst of laughter in disbelief.

                           “I don’t even know where to begin. Do I ask about you or Hamish? Or do I focus on how the two of you are connected?”

                           “Whatever you want, John. We have all the time in the world now. However, if you want to visit with Hamish and be able to answer his questions today then you might start with that particular set of questions.”

                           John’s mind raced as he paced circles around Sherlock. He was trying desperately to regain all of his composure and sort through the magnitude of questions that he had, but he was unable to make his mind slow down enough to make sense of anything. He stopped pacing and placed his hands on his legs just above his knees. He was so anxious that he felt as if he was going to be sick. Sherlock waited patiently as John resumed his pacing.

                           “How do you know Hamish?”  John asked with as much patience as he could muster. His voice and his hands were shaking. His breathing was ragged. He wanted to add on a plethora of other questions but he knew Sherlock wouldn’t hold anything back. Not now.

                           “His parents were a casualty to one of Moriarty’s henchmen. Another story for another time,” Sherlock added before John could ask for more details about Moriarty.  “I was chasing down every lead I could when I first encountered him. I needed to question him. I must admit, however; I was drawn back to him time and again not because of his connection with Jim Moriarty, but because of his connection with you.”

                           “I’m sorry, with me?” John interrupted.

                           “He shares your name, John. And despite his physical appearances, his personality rather mirrors your own. I try to come and see him everyday if possible. He has been almost as anxious as myself to see you. He was the best substitution of you that I could find.”

                           “How long?”

                           “His parents died just shy of three years ago. I’ve been visiting him here for the past two and a half.”

                           “Two and a…” John was having trouble grasping all of what he was being told. That boy had known of Sherlock’s existence for the last two and a half years while John had been left alone to his pain.

                           “Also another story for another time. You will know the full story of my death and why you had to be kept in the dark later. But now you have more questions.”

                           “Yesterday, when I met him on the streets, that wasn’t just a coincidence, was it?”

                           “Good lord, no. There was no way the orphanage would ever let one of their kids run alone throughout the city. They barely allowed me to take him without one of their own employees accompanying us.  It took a persuading from both Mycroft as well as Lestrade.” John’s gaze snapped back to Sherlock’s blue stare at this last bit of information. “Another time. I have been observing you closely over the past three years, John. It has broken my heart to see you so… anguished. Anyway, I knew you went to that diner, that one from the night of our first case, every Wednesday. I picked Hamish up and sent him to you. I was just across the street.” Suddenly, John’s urge to punch Sherlock returned with a vengeance. How dare Sherlock allow John to believe that he was dead for this long, or for any amount of time really. There was simply no excuse. And then, as a sort of test, he sent some child in to see if he was okay. John wasn’t one of Sherlock’s bloody experiments. John clenched his left fist again. “If you really need to punch me, John, I won’t blame you. I won’t even avoid the blow. But everything I did, I did for a reason. I did it for you, John.

                           “Seeing you with Hamish was the first time I had seen you smile in months. Then  this morning you actually opened your blog again. You were healing. And believe it or not, it was important for you to get to that stage before I could reveal myself.”

                           John had seated himself on the sidewalk in front of the orphanage. His arms were draped over his bent knees as he hung his head between them. His world was spinning.

                           “Where does the boy fit into all of this? Was he just your tool to see if I was ready, if I was healed?”

                           “No, that’s not all, though he did prove useful in that area. I needed to see how you acted around him for his sake as well.”

                           “How do you mean?” asked John.

                           “John, I said that it could be dangerous.”

                           “Yes, and here I am,” interrupted John.

                           “Yes. Here you are.” Sherlock said with a fond smile. He began to pace. John hadn’t seen him this anxious since their time spent at Baskerville. “John there’s something that I have been considering, something that I’ve been wanting to do for a while now, but I cannot do it without you. But first, I have to know, can you see yourself forgiving me? Ever?”

                           “Sherlock, I have already forgiven you. It will just take some time for me to get used to the fact that you’re not… dead.” Sherlock was still pacing back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back. John still hadn’t moved from his position on the sidewalk “What is it?”

                           “I think… I want you to consider the idea of you and I… adopting Hamish.” Sherlock stopped with his back to John, but there was no mistaking what he had said. John threw his head back and laughed, causing Sherlock to turn on the spot. John’s expression sobered when he saw the angst in Sherlock’s eyes.

                           “You’re serious?” Sherlock stared at him, his expression the same mixture of pain and anticipation. “What makes you think the two of us could raise a child? There are times we barely manage to keep ourselves alive.” John startled himself with the amount of casualness that was in his own voice. He really had already forgiven his old friend. Sherlock smiled at John’s use of the present tense and the word we. The tension between the two of them visibly reduced.

                           “I think the relationship between him and us could be mutually beneficial,” explained Sherlock. “You said yourself that with the right upbringing he could be extraordinary. We could teach him all that we know.”

                           “Why would he need me?” asked John. “What is there that I could teach him that you couldn’t?”

                           “How to love,” said Sherlock, the pain evident again on his face. “And the workings of the solar system,” he finished with a shrug and a roll of his eyes. John laughed slightly and nodded. “Plus, I think he could be good for us in a number of ways.”

                           “But why would they allow us to adopt him? We’re not even…” _a couple? married?_ John wasn’t sure how he had meant for that sentence to end, so he left it hanging, unfinished.

                           “They’re overcrowded,” Sherlock answered, ignoring the incomplete thought. “Plus, they have a hard time finding homes for the older children. Not to mention we have two shining letters of recommendation from Mycroft and Lestrade.”

                           “I’m sorry, did you say we _have_ them? As in they have already been written?”

                           “Yes, and submitted. The orphanage is just waiting to interview us before they submit our paperwork.”

                           “Of course you already have all my information that they need, then,” said John.

                           “Obviously.”

                           “Right.” John finally stood. This morning he was writing about dealing with his friends death and coping with the new realization that he did in fact love him. Now he was considering adopting a child with him. Sherlock was asking him to become a _dad_ , to take responsibility for another life.

                           “Are you sure you’re ready for something like this?” John asked. “There’s a lot that comes with having a child. Their needs, their wants, their desires have to come before yours. You cannot drag them along to something, say like a crime scene, and then leave them behind to find their own way home, when you need to pursue a new clue,” John explained, hinting at the way Sherlock had treated him at their crime scene with the woman in pink. “And you have to understand that he won’t be able to deduce things the way that you do. It doesn’t make him an idiot.”

                           “You forget, John, that I have spent the past two years with Hamish. I have grown quite acquainted with the proper way to speak with him. And you underestimate him. He is actually quite talented at using deduction.” John considered Sherlock’s argument. He remembered the way Hamish had taken Sherlock by the hand and pulled him, the way Hamish had said _Yes, Mr. Sherlock_. There was already a level of comfort and adoration between the two of them. “Have you no other objections than your worry about our adequacy as parents? You are aware that all new parents, whether adopted or biological, have that same fear.”

                           John was the one to pace this time while Sherlock followed him with his gaze. The absurdity of Sherlock’s proposal made John want to laugh. But the severity with which he wanted to accept had that familiar pain in his chest flaring.

                           “John, have you no other objections?” Sherlock asked again as he continued to watch John pace back and forth in front of him. He was growing anxious in John’s silence, becoming convinced that John’s answer would be no. Of course it had been too much to throw this amount of information in John’s lap and then expect him to just jump on board at the idea of adopting a child with him. Stupid.

                           “Okay,” said John, stopping abruptly, facing the orphanage in front of them. He covered his face with his hand.

                           “Sorry, what?” asked Sherlock, stunned.

                           “Okay,” repeated John. “Let’s go talk with the orphanage. Let’s see if they will give us a son.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Three.**

“So, when you said that all they needed was an interview with the two of us for our paperwork to be submitted, you didn’t mean the initial paperwork?” John asked in the cab as they made their way to 221B Baker Street. Hamish was seated across from John, practically bouncing in his seat from excitement.

 

               “I thought that was obvious. John, this adoption has been underway for over a year now. We literally only lacked the interview.”

               “We don’t even have a room prepared for him, Sherlock. I suppose he can have my room. I’ll sleep on the couch…”

               “No,” interrupted Sherlock. “You can share my room. We can buy separate beds if it would make you more comfortable.”

               “No, that’s,” started John. He wasn’t sure how to finish his sentence. “We should save our money for things that Hamish may need.” Hamish looked to John and smiled broadly before turning his attention back out the window.

               “Mr. Sherlock,” said Hamish. “Is Mrs. Hudson going to be there?”

               “Of course,” replied Sherlock with one of those rare smiles that touched his eyes. “And your uncle Mycroft will be along with Lestrade later this evening for dinner.”

               “Mrs. Hudson knew?” Sherlock eyed John with his typical _obviously_ expression.

               “Yes, of course she did. You didn’t think I would bring home a child to our flat without informing her did you?”

               “Was there anybody besides me that was unaware of our situation?”

               “Maybe we could save this conversation for later tonight.” Sherlock nodded towards Hamish, who had again directed his attention out the window. Despite his frustration, John knew that Sherlock was right and nodded in agreement.

               It surprised him a little, how attentive Sherlock was towards Hamish. He was so careful around the boy. Suddenly John could see the last two years, Sherlock teaching Hamish how many types of tobacco ash there were and why that was important, or getting him a microscope for his birthday.

               “Hamish?” John started as they neared the flat. The boy looked at him expectantly. “When is your birthday?” It was somewhere in the paperwork, but everything had happened so quickly that he hadn’t had the opportunity to go through any of it.

               “In one week,” Hamish beamed.

               “Oh,” said John, somewhat bewildered. “And how old will you be?”

               “Eleven,” replied Hamish and Sherlock together. The three of them smiled.

               “Is there anything you would like for your birthday?”

               “A family.” All of the tension that had built within John over the course of the morning melted away.

               “Anything else?” Sherlock chimed in. John looked at him in disbelief. It wasn’t like him to be this considerate of other people, at least not that he could remember. “The boy needs something to unwrap,” he added matter of factly.

               The cab stopped in front of their flat and Hamish was out of the car in a matter of seconds. Mrs. Hudson was standing in the doorway, her arms stretched out to receive him. They went inside while John and Sherlock grabbed the two bags that belonged to the boy.

               “Sherlock,” John said, stopping at the foot of the stairs inside the flat.

               “Hmm?” Sherlock answered, setting down the small bag filled with all of Hamish’s clothing.

               “I just wanted to say…” he looked up the stairs, looking for any sign of Hamish or Mrs. Hudson. “I just, I’m glad you’re back.” Quickly he grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug. Sherlock stood still with shock for a brief moment before returning John’s embrace. John released after a beat, nodded once at Sherlock, grabbed the bag he had been carrying and headed up the stairs to the lounge without saying another word. Sherlock smiled slightly before picking up the other bag and following John.

               Upstairs, John was surprised to see how much Mrs. Hudson had cleaned up. The dishes were clean, the floors had been swept. All of the clothes had been picked up off the furniture and floors.

               “Um, thank you Mrs. Hudson,” John mumbled to her, embarrassed.

               “Just this once, dear, for the boy. I’m not your house keeper,” she replied.

               “Yes, of course.  Thank you.” He turned his attention to Hamish who was walking through the rooms, studying his new home. “So what do you think?”

               “I like it here,” Hamish said enthusiastically. “Do I get my own room?”

               “Yes, well, your room will be the one upstairs. It’s filled with my stuff right now, but we’ll have it transformed into a place all your own by your birthday. How’s that sound?”

               The two men led the way up the stairs to John’s bedroom with Hamish’s bags of possessions in hand. In contrast to the lounge, John’s room was bare, only containing a single bed, a bare desk, and a sparsely filled closet. After so many years with the military, John had never fully shaken the habits that he had picked up there. His bed was so neatly made it still would have passed inspection. The clothes that weren’t hanging in the closet were folded neatly on the shelves.

               “Well,” began Sherlock, “it’s good to see that the transition won’t be too difficult.” John walked over to the desk, opened the top drawer and pulled out his handgun. Sherlock and Hamish watched as John double checked that the safety was on before tucking it into the back of his trousers. He would be sure to lock it away in the top of Sherlock’s closet later. Hamish ran over and plopped down on the bed that was now his before opening each of his two bags to begin unpacking.

               “Right, well, no time like the present, I suppose,” said John as he walked over to the closet to grab an armload of his clothing. Sherlock followed suit before leading the way down to his bedroom.

               John was saddened when he felt that familiar pang in his chest as he followed Sherlock into the dusty room. The layers of dust were now the only remaining evidence of the loneliness that John had had to endure over the past three years.

               “I’ll try to clean up in here tonight,” offered Sherlock.

               “No don’t worry about it. We can take care of that some other time. Tonight we should focus on Hamish. Besides, don’t we have Mycroft coming for dinner tonight?”

               “Yes, and Lestrade and Molly. But not for a few more hours. We can clean up in the meantime. Get Hamish fully moved in upstairs.”

               “Molly?”

               “Yes, John. Molly knows as well. In fact, she played a huge part in my survival. But as I said before, that conversation will be a long one and should probably be left for a time when we won’t be interrupted.” John nodded.

               As the day progressed, the two men continued moving all of John’s possessions into Sherlock’s room. Sherlock gave Mrs. Hudson money to take Hamish shopping for some bedding and more clothing. Meanwhile, the two men tried their best to get all of the rooms of the flat clean.

               “Really, John. You could have thrown some of this out,” Sherlock said over his shoulder as he was going through the mountain of paperwork on his desk.

               “No I…” John stopped short. He directed his attention to the floor, the walls, anywhere but on Sherlock who had turned to face him. “I couldn’t.” Sherlock walked over to where John was standing. John continued to avoid eye contact as he crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his weight from one leg to another.

               “John,” began Sherlock, placing a hand on each of John’s shoulders. “I will never be able to tell you how sorry I am for what I put you through.” He moved his right hand and placed it on the side of John’s neck. Finally, John looked up into Sherlock’s blue eyes as his own pooled with tears. “I’m so sorry, John.” John’s jaw clenched and a crease formed between his brows. “Please forgive me.”

               “I’ve told you,” John managed to whisper. He rubbed that same spot over his heart. “I forgive you. How can I possibly stay mad at you when I’ve spent the last six hours thanking God that you are alive? But I swear, if you ever jump off of a rooftop in front of me again, you better actually be dead.” Sherlock laughed as he released John.

               “How about I just promise to steer clear of rooftops from now on?” Sherlock asked, going back to cleaning off his desk.

               “That works.”

               They spent the rest of the afternoon getting resettled. John set himself up on the far side of Sherlock’s bed. _Their bed._ He would have to get used to calling it _their_ bed.

               Hamish and Mrs. Hudson returned with a load of stuff for his bedroom. They had bought navy paint for the walls, the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars for the ceiling, and a light blue comforter set. With all three of the adults painting, it took only a few hours to have the room completely finished and ready for Hamish. John left his desk for Hamish’s studies.

               “It needs something on it,” said Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock left the room quickly. In a moment he was back with his old skull in his hands.

               “This will give you somebody to talk to, someone to listen as you talk out your problems. That is, of course, unless you want to talk with me or your…” The word _dad_ hung heavy in the air. They weren’t sure how comfortable Hamish would be with using that term.

               “Thank you Mr. Sherlock!” exclaimed Hamish. He ran over and hugged Sherlock around the waist. John and Mrs. Hudson smiled as they watched the two interact. John had gotten Sherlock back, but he wasn’t exactly the way he remembered him. He was better, if that was possible.

               Just then, the doorbell rang. Mrs. Hudson opened the door to Mycroft, Molly, and Lestrade standing outside. John and Sherlock descended the stairs from Hamish’s room together.

               “So I see you decided to have dinner with us after all,” said Mycroft as John stood in front of him.

               “Well you didn’t mention that we would be dining here,” replied John.

               “Didn’t I?”

               Hugs and handshakes made their way around the group. They all acted as if they hadn’t seen Sherlock in a while, which pleased John for some reason. Even Mycroft seemed truly happy to see his brother. As the group made their way to the lounge where Hamish was waiting perched on the back of one of the chairs, John and Molly went to the kitchen to poor drinks.

               “Thank you,” whispered John when he was sure the others weren’t listening. “He told me you had a hand in his survival. I don’t know what you did or how, but thank you.” Molly smiled shyly.

               “Of course I was happy to help. It’s good to see him again, and to see the two of you back together.”

               “Didn’t you see him, I mean, you’ve met Hamish, so you’ve see him, before now.” Molly shook her head.

               “Twice in the three years. Both times occurred in the last month. He told me about his plans concerning Hamish. I got curious, wanted to meet him. Sherlock just so happened to be at the orphanage visiting when I stopped by. You should know he was nervous about stepping out into public again, of course. But more than anything he was afraid of the way you would react.” John smiled slightly as he placed the drinks onto a tray. “He wasn’t running around with all of us, you know. In fact, none of us had seen him since that day. He would only text us. He wanted you to see him first.” It was exactly what John needed to hear. After discovering that they had all known, he had convinced himself that they had interacted as before Sherlock’s fall. He had pictured them all out to lunch together without him. But Molly’s words fixed that image. They had all been cut off from Sherlock. It hadn’t just been him.

               “Ah…yes…well thank you.”

               Drinks and dinner went by casually. Most of the conversation was centered around Hamish. And after spending the last three years in an orphanage, he was soaking up the attention. Eventually, however, they were all saying their goodbyes. It felt like old times, with the exception of one very new addition. After the company had left and Mrs. Hudson had gone off to bed, John walked up the stairs with Hamish to tuck him in. A small lamp was turned on on the bed side table and Hamish quickly changed into his new pajamas before crawling under his comforter.

               “What are we going to do tomorrow?” he asked as John sat on the side of his bed.

               “What would you like to do?”

               “Can we go to the park?” John smiled down at his son.

               “You bet,” he said as he stood. “Good night, son.” He flipped off the lamp, revealing the stars on the ceiling.

               “Dad?” The use of the word warmed John down to his very core.

               “Yeah?”

               “Is Mr. Sherlock really a superhero?” John couldn’t help but smile.

               “He is to me,” he replied, stepping back into the room. Wasn’t that exactly what Sherlock was? He fought crime, had archenemies, and came back from the dead.

               “Okay,” Hamish said with a smile.

               “Good night,” John said again as he headed back for the door.

               “I think you’re one too.” The warmth spread over John again replacing the pain in his chest with a healing glow. Could someone’s life really change so drastically in the course of a day? John walked back down the stairs and into the lounge. Sherlock was standing in his blue robe looking out the window.

               “How is he?” he asked without turning around.

               “Well, it’s official, we are both anointed superheroes.” Sherlock smiled at his friend’s words. John stood there and studied Sherlock. Not in the way Sherlock would have, but he studied him none the less. He thanked God again. Today had been filled with enough emotional duress for a lifetime and he was exhausted

               “Are you ready for bed?” Sherlock asked.

               “Oh god, yes,” John replied with a sigh


	4. Chapter 4

**Four.**

            John and Sherlock had fallen asleep quickly that night. The doctor decided that it would be best to sort through his questions before bombarding Sherlock with them. In all honesty, John was just glad to have his partner back, he didn’t care how or why, when it came down to it. In the meantime, John managed to drift off to the soft sound of Sherlock’s light snoring.

Sometime in the middle of the night, as John lay sleeping on his stomach, something caused him to jerk awake, the darkness of the room enveloped him. He thought over the dream he had had. It’s not like it was a new dream. Sherlock often came back to John in this way. But the boy had been a new addition. He buried his face in his pillow and sighed deeply. His dream had been so vivid this time that he could almost smell Sherlock. _As if_ … it was almost as if he had never left. John stretched out his arms to his sides, his left arm bumping into something solid. In his bed upstairs, the wall would be on the right hand side while he was on his stomach. John slowly rubbed the solid object next to him, investigating each contour. It took him a full minute for him to grasp - _to believe_ \- what had before been impossible. “Sherlock,” he whispered. _He’s alive,_ he thought. _He’s real_. John allowed his arm to drape across Sherlock’s chest, drifting off to the steady rhythm of the resurrected.

            After what felt like only moments later, John was awake again. The room was still draped under a blanket of night. In his brief sleep, he had managed to get as close to Sherlock as possible. Lying on his side, he had draped both his arm and leg over his best friend. John sat up in bed, pulling his knees up to his chest. He watched the rise and fall of the outline of Sherlock’s chest. It would take him a while to get used to sleeping with someone else in the bed. Slowly, John crawled out of bed, feeling his way through the unfamiliar room. Out in the hall, John had enough light from the windows to see a little better. He walked slowly up the stairs and cracked open the door to his old bedroom. Hamish was curled up under the comforter, sleeping soundly. John smiled to himself as he carefully closed the door again and went down into the kitchen. It was strange, being in a full house, having the people he cared most about back in his life. What really surprised him was how much he already cared for the boy. He had tested the waters for both of them by calling Hamish ‘son’ so soon, and was rewarded ten-fold when he got called ‘dad’ in return. John filled a clean mug with cold water and drank as he silently stood in the kitchen, soaking it all in. Finally, he made his way back to bed.

            The room seemed darker after the light in the hallway, and John was blinded once again. He slowly made his way around the foot of the double bed. Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through John’s toes and up into his leg. Every swear word that he knew went through his mind and out of his mouth. “Ohmygod, bloody hell…” John exclaimed. The bedside lamp flicked on.

            “John?” Sherlock asked groggily, his voice rough with sleep. “Are you alright?”

            “Stubbed my toe.” John carefully bent his toes to make sure none of them were broken. “Still getting used to the room.” Sherlock let his friend get to the other side of the bed before  turning off the light again.

            “Are you sure you’re okay?” Sherlock asked in the fresh darkness.

            “I’ll survive.” John was still sitting up in bed, holding the outside of his left foot. Nothing broken, but he would probably be limping for a day. Eventually, he climbed back under the covers and laid down.

            “We can buy a night light for you tomorrow if you want. Maybe one that matches Hamish’s.” John let his arm fly as he backhanded Sherlock in the stomach. The man grunted in response before John heard the deep baritone laugh. “Good night, John.”

            “Good night.” John rolled over onto his side and tried to go back to sleep, but his mind was too alert now. “Sherlock?” he asked quietly.

            “Are you ready to ask your questions?”

            “Why.” It wasn’t so much a question as it was John’s demand to understand. “Why did you do it? Why did you fake your death? Why in front of me?”

            “The answer to this question is simple. In fact, I would be surprised if you don’t already know.” The silence stretched on between them. Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. “I did it to save your life, John.” He offered no more explanation.

            “My life?” John let the words sink in. “You care to elaborate?” Sherlock took another deep breath. This part of the story made him slightly anxious.

            “On the day of…” Sherlock stopped short before beginning again. “Jim Moriarty had three hitmen set up. One for each of his three targets.” Sherlock looked in John’s direction, though it was too dark with the blackout curtains for him to actually see anything. “The first was for Lestrade, the second for Mrs. Hudson, and the final was…was for…you,” he finally got out. If I didn’t jump, if the gunmen didn’t see me commit suicide, it would have been a death sentence for all three of you. I couldn’t let that happen. I had to protect you.” Sherlock paused for another moment. “All of you,” he added. “You told me once that it was friends that protect people and, well, you’re my only real friend.” John had actually never imagined that Sherlock had this much of a heart. He never would have imagined that the man that kept himself distant from everything could express himself like this. No, he never believed it when his friend tried to claim himself as a fraud, but he hadn’t expected for Sherlock to go to the extreme measure of risking his life just for…

            “You…you were saving my life? I thought back for months and months on the fact that my last words to you were basically those of me calling you a machine. And all along you were doing all of it to…to save…” John couldn’t finish the sentence. “But how? How did you survive?”

            “That story is a little more complicated.” Sherlock’s deep voice resonated in the black bedroom. The whole situation gave John chills.

            “I don’t need the science of it. I mean, I saw you, Sherlock. I saw you…” John had to force out the word. He had spent the last three years trying to block out that day from his memory. But now it was time to let it all back in. “I saw you jump. I saw you lying on the ground, covered in your own blood. You were dead, Sherlock.” John’s pulse sped as all of his memories of that day came flying back. The soldier rubbed the pain in his chest.

            “It was all an illusion, John, a magic trick. Pre-planned and executed only with the help of Molly and a few of my friends in the homeless network. The blood was mine, but not from the fall. You remember the case with the missing husband and the rental car filled with blood?” Sherlock waited in the dark for John’s response, but it never came. Sherlock liked telling this part. It was genius, really, how he’d managed to execute his plan. “Anyway, it gave me the idea to pull some of my own blood for the…the fall.” The silence that surrounded them only seemed to intensify. “Molly had a team of medics ready to respond, and my contacts in the homeless network were there to distract you.”

            “You mean by knocking me down while I was trying to get to you?” John’s voice was cold.

            “To disorient you. They gave the others enough time to stage the scene. That plus the level of shock that you were in and all I had to do was lie still for long enough. Anyway, when I jumped, I…”

            “Stop,” John interrupted. “Can you really be so callused, so separated from all of this?”

            “John, I was alive as I was lying on that pavement. Watching you run toward me, reach for me, it was the hardest thing that I’ve ever had to bear. But it also confirmed that I had done the right thing. It was the only way to save you.”

            “As much as I would like to know more of the specifics, I can’t…” John’s voice was shaking. He took a slow deep breath. “I can’t go back to that day.” Both men were quiet for what felt like an eternity. “Why were you gone for so long? Why not reveal yourself immediately?”

            “I had to make sure the hitmen took the bait. I had to track each of them, make sure there was no longer a target on your head. Then I discovered Moran.”

            “Who?”

            “Sebastian Moran. He was Moriarty’s right hand man and took over after Moriarty killed himself on that rooftop. I followed various leads to try to shut down all of Moriarty’s networks but they appeared to be as connected to Moran as they had been to his predecessor. So I laid low, trying to keep track of his movements. Plus, considering that Moriarty was prepared to do anything to bring me down, prepared to kill himself in order to burn me, I had to assume that Moran would be as well. So I stayed hidden to keep any further attention off of you. Keep in mind that each lead that I followed took weeks, some even months because of how secretive I had to be. Many of the cases found their way onto Mycroft’s desk and some onto Lestrade’s. I only revealed myself to them through email and that was _only_ to better pursue the suspects.”

            “How long have they known?” John was sitting up in bed again, his knees pulled up to his chin. He spoke in little above a whisper.

            “Do you really want me to answer that question?” John let out a long sigh, preparing himself.

            “Yes.”

            “Lestrade went about six months thinking that I was dead,” John’s head snapped up. He looked over at Sherlock through the darkness. He could make out enough of a silhouette that he knew Sherlock wasn’t looking back. _Only six months?_ “Mycroft only went about six weeks.” The familiar pain in John’s chest flared. He felt so foolish. All this time, he had walked around in misery, wondering how everybody else had managed to move on, how everybody was okay. Nobody had even hinted…

            “Continue,” John said through a tight chest.

            “Anyway, I’ve spent the last three years trying to break off every lead, getting closer to Moran. When all activity on Moran’s part appeared to have stopped, and stayed inactive, I finally started preparing to reveal myself to you. I just had no idea how to go about it, let alone how to tell you that I thought we should adopt Hamish together. I was so certain that you would never want to speak to me again. There was no way you would want to start a…a family…with me.”

            “You said that Hamish’s parents were killed by Moriarty’s men.”

            “Yes, by Moran himself. It was the only time, that I can tell, that he got his hands dirty. That was when I first learned of him, that he had taken over after Moriarty’s death. I originally went to Hamish because he was my only link, he has seen Moran, could tell me about him. I also wanted to make sure that he was safe. I worried Moran would want to kill him _because_ Hamish is a threat to his identity.

            “I essentially chased Moran around England for the next year and a half, never able to get him in my grasp. He’s not a showman like Moriarty was. Moran likes to stay behind the scenes and let his people do all of the work for him.”

            “I’ve noticed that you keep using the present tense when referring to Moran.” John looked in the direction of the man next to him. Sherlock remained silent. “You never found him.” It wasn’t a question.

            “No.” Sherlock sounded defeated. “We got close, but he went into hiding. We haven’t gotten a new lead in about a year. I wasn’t willing to wait any longer. I needed…” Sherlock stopped short.

            “What?” John prodded gently.

            “I missed you, John,” the detective admitted in a rush. “I needed to see you again, and not just from a distance. I didn’t like having to…” Sherlock took a deep breath, “having to stay away.”

            John sank down into the bed until he was lying flat on his back, staring into nothing. After everything that Sherlock had shared with him, his last statement, the one that was filled with the out of character sentiment, was what really held John’s attention.

            “I just…” John’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “I just have one more question.” The sound of John’s voice was foreign to his own ears. Sherlock’s fall had made John go emotionally numb in a way that the war had never managed to do. The sudden return of both Sherlock, as well as John’s ability to feel, had him overwhelmed. A lump formed in his throat, causing his delay.

            “Okay.”

            “Why not let _me_ know? You emailed Mycroft and Lestrade. Molly knew all along. Mrs. Hudson eventually found out. But why couldn’t you tell me? What made them special? Why was it okay for them to know and not for me. I was dying without you Sherlock.” John stopped. He hadn’t meant for that to sound quite so intimate. But it was the truth, wasn’t it? “I would have taken anything. A text. An email. A phone call. Hell, a letter would have been acceptable. Why was _I_ kept in the dark?”

            “John, when I began to suspect that I would have to die, I began to make a plan to survive it. At one point, while standing on the roof, I thought that maybe, somehow, I wouldn’t have to die. Briefly. Then Moriarty told me that he would kill you if I didn’t jump, and so my fate was sealed. It was my fault that your life was in danger, but I would not be responsible for your death.

            “As far as my revelations to the others, I knew I could stay away, even if they knew I was alive. I wasn’t worried about being tempted to see them. But you are different, John. If I had told you that I was alive (which I only felt right by doing so in person), I would want to see you again. I would want to hug you or something.” Sherlock was suddenly quiet. Awkwardly so, like he had never thought about hugging somebody before in his life. He regained his composure and continued. ”To sit out all night talking to you. An occasional email or text would not have been acceptable. You’re my best friend. And I know my limits. If I would have shown my face before I was sure it was safe, and something had happened to you as a result, then all of it would have been for naught. It wouldn’t have taken much for them to figure out that you are my weakness. Moran is smart. But I just knew that they would kill you. And if you die, John…” Sherlock’s voice was thick with emotion. John’s tears spilled over down the sides of his face and into his ears. “If you die, I die.” John couldn’t speak. He could only lay there as the tears streamed. He reached up with his left hand and covered his mouth, stifling the sound of his crying. He took slow breaths, trying to regain his composure. Then Sherlock did something that surprised both of them. He reached down and placed his hand on top of John’s, holding on for support. Finally, John’s nerves calmed enough that he was able to fall back to sleep, still holding onto his best friend’s hand.


	5. Chapter 5

**Five.**                                                                                                                                                          **Feb 21**

                The next week with Hamish took a lot of adjustments for everybody in the house. But overall, John couldn’t complain. They had gone to the park together, as a family, almost every day out of the week, even though it was almost freezing outside. John was finally getting used to having people in his house again. It actually felt like a home now. But he still found himself waking up in the middle of the night, feeling for Sherlock, each time convinced that it had all been a dream. Maybe someday he would wake up and just know. Know that it was real.

               “Dad!” Hamish came bursting into their bedroom. Sherlock was already up. John sat up in bed, bare chested, the comforter pulled up to his waist. He had gotten so comfortable with sleeping in his underwear that he hadn’t even bothered to change it just because he shared a bed now.

               “Happy birthday, Hamish!” John exclaimed sleepily. “Are you ready for your party today?” Hamish climbed into the large bed, happier and more excited than John had ever seen him.

               “I can’t wait!” he practically shouted. “Mr. Sherlock is making pancakes!” Hamish still hadn’t used any form of parental endearment towards Sherlock. He had been using ‘Mr. Sherlock’ for so long that it was second nature for both of them.

               “Hamish,” John started. He wanted so much for Sherlock to feel that warm glow that John felt each time Hamish called him dad. “You know you don’t have to call him Mr. Sherlock if you don’t want to.”

               “Then what do I call him?”

               “Well, you can call him dad if you wanted.” John didn’t want to push it.

               “But you’re dad.” John smiled.

               “So I am. Well you can call him whatever you want. There are other names that you can use besides dad, like papa, or father. Or if you are more comfortable calling him Mr. Sherlock, you can stick with that. I just thought I would tell you that he won’t mind if you call him something else.” Hamish nodded as he considered John’s words, but before he could reply, a loud beeping came from outside the room.

               John and Hamish both climbed out of bed, rushing to the source of the noise. Before they had made it five steps, they were greeted by a cloud of smoke. “Go open the front door and stand in the doorway,” John told Hamish. “Do not come back inside until I tell you that it’s okay. You understand?” Hamish nodded and ran down the stairs to open the door. “Sherlock?” John called as he ducked below the wall of smoke. There was no answer. John ran into the lounge and threw the windows open, exchanging smoke for the brisk morning air. “Sherlock?” John called again, louder this time and with an edge of panic. He heard coughing coming from the kitchen.

               “I’m alright, John.” Sherlock emerged from the kitchen, waving his hand in front of his face. “Where’s Hamish?”

               “I made him go stand at the front door. What happened here?”

               “Small stove fire. I got sidetracked and left a towel by the burner. Also, I burnt breakfast.” Sherlock frowned.

               “Hamish was right? You were actually making pancakes?”

               “I wanted to do something nice.” John laughed lightly as he continued to fan the smoke out the windows.

               “It’s the thought that counts. We’ll figure out something to eat. But for now, would you mind telling Hamish that it’s okay to come inside?” Sherlock nodded and turned to leave. Before he could get far, Mrs. Hudson’s voice was coming up the stairs, Hamish close behind.

               “What in the devil’s…”

               “Everything’s okay,” John assured her. “Small fire. No damage.” Mrs. Hudson stopped in the doorway of the kitchen after setting down the bags she and Hamish had carried in. She took in the condition of the room and, after deciding that the flat wasn’t in jeopardy, she finally turned her attention to John and Sherlock.

               “Oh, sorry dears. I didn’t know you were…” Her voice rose slightly. She turned around quickly to hide her blush. “I bought breakfast for the boy’s birthday. Just let me know when you’re ready to eat.” Mrs. Hudson turned and walked quickly down the stairs. John stared after her in confusion.

               “I wonder what that was all about,” He said half to himself. Sherlock turned to face him. He began to laugh in the deep tones that John knew so well.

               “I know exactly what that was about,” Sherlock said, lighthearted.

               “Of course you do. Care to share with the rest of the class?”

               “John,” Sherlock said, amused. John raised an eyebrow in response. “Look down.” John frowned in confusion, but followed his friend’s command. Quickly he discovered exactly what Sherlock was seeing. He stood there, in only his black boxer briefs, one hand on his hip, the other scratching the back of his head. He couldn’t help his outburst of laughter.

               “Well, if Mrs. Hudson didn’t think we were a couple before, me standing here in my underwear and you in that bloody sheet is sure to do the trick.”

               “At least I’m somewhat covered.” They both laughed.

               “Dad? Are we going to have breakfast soon?” Hamish’s voice came from the doorway.

               “Yes. If you’ll go get Mrs. Hudson, your father and I will go get dressed.” John led the way to the bedroom as Hamish ran downstairs.

               “Father, huh?” Sherlock said quietly once their bedroom door was closed.

               “Hmm?”

               “You said ‘your father and I’.”

               “Did I?” Sherlock smiled and nodded. “Huh. Well, I had just been talking with him about calling you something other than Mr. Sherlock. I guess it just slipped out.” Sherlock smiled before stepping into the closet to get dressed. The pair spent the next few minutes getting ready together. Before long, Hamish was banging on their door, entering before they could answer.

               “Breakfast is on the table,” he informed them. John smiled and nodded. He walked to the bedroom door and held it open for Hamish and Sherlock. “Come on Mr. Sherlock!” The bright eyed boy again grabbed the tall slender man by the hand, dragging him through the open door.

               After breakfast, the guys prepared for the upcoming party. Sherlock hung streamers from the top shelves while John began setting out the presents and getting the room situated for the coming guests.

               “Are all of those for me?” Hamish exclaimed.

               “Obviously,” Sherlock replied over his shoulder.

               “Sherlock,” John scolded quietly. His friend turned to look first at John and then at the boy before finally looking back at John.

               “Not good?” he asked. John pursed his lips and cocked his head slightly to the left. “Right. Sorry. Yes, of course they are all for you,” he tried again with a tone of enthusiasm this time. “It’s not any of our birthdays.” As Sherlock smiled, Hamish met it with his own. Just then, the doorbell rang and suddenly their flat was swarming with people who collectively told Hamish ‘Happy birthday’.

               “The place looks nice,” Molly complimented quietly, shifting her gaze up to Sherlock and back away again. Greg walked over and gently placed his hand at the small of her back. She turned to face him. John and Sherlock shared a look of understanding, and smiled. Lestrade’s divorce had only been final for about six months now, but the way he smiled at Molly had John hoping. Maybe they would last.

               Once everyone was settled with glasses of punch in their hands, John brought out the birthday cake. They had had it specially made in a three dimensional, almost life-like, shape of a dragon (Hamish’s favorite creature at the moment) climbing up a slope. Really, it was a piece of art. They had placed eleven candles at the end of the slope in front of the dragon’s mouth so that when they were lit, it looked as if it was breathing a trail of fire. Everybody sang happy birthday. Even Sherlock. Even Mycroft. Hamish blew out the candles with one gust. The whole room applauded. It seemed a shame, really, to cut the cake, but what other purpose did it serve?

               “Can I eat the head?!” Hamish asked enthusiastically.

               “Do you want cake or presents first?” John asked. Hamish looked from the cake to the presents and back again, seriously considering his decision.

               “Cake first. Then presents.” Mycroft walked over to the cake and gingerly picked up a knife.

               “Would you like to take care of the beheading?” he asked Hamish, holding the handle of the knife out delicately for his nephew. “Just be careful.” Hamish firmly grasped the handle of the knife before turning to the cake. He lifted the blade and spread his feet for a more powerful stance.

               “Die!” he yelled as he lowered the makeshift sword quickly to the base of the dragon’s lifted neck. It fell with a soft thud. Hamish was applauded once again. Mycroft retrieved the sword from Hamish and began cutting the headless body of the red velvet cake into smaller pieces for the rest of the party and plated them.

               “I believe this is for you, then.” said Sherlock as he placed a plastic crown on top of Hamish’s head. “There. Now it is official.”

               “All hail, Prince Hamish,” John called out. The rest of the party joined in. Hamish took his plate over to the couch against the far wall and ate quietly as he sat on the back of it.

               “He learned that from you, you know.” John whispered to Sherlock. “You’ve given him your general disregard for the proper uses of furniture.” They walked over to join him on the couch, John sitting on the middle cushion while Sherlock perched on the other side of him, mirroring Hamish.

               After cake came presents. John and Sherlock had gone overboard with buying their new son enough clothes to last him until he outgrew them. They wanted him to have plenty of options for when he started school in March. Mrs. Hudson bought Hamish an impressive train set with working bells and whistles. Molly and Greg had teamed up to buy him an iPod nano and Mycroft bought him a telescope for his bedroom. Hamish finally picked up the last present that was from both of his dads. He unwrapped it quickly.

               “The Hobbit,” he read the title aloud. John had found a large collector’s edition that was beautifully illustrated.

               “There is a fierce, fire breathing dragon in there,” explained Sherlock in a dark predatory voice, walking across the couch, and John’s lap, toward Hamish as if he were stalking his prey.

               “Then there is a brave hobbit, about your size, that comes to save the day. He goes on a great adventure with dwarves and elves…” John mocked stabbing Sherlock with an imaginary sword, Sherlock collapsing across the couch.

               “Can we read this tonight?” Hamish interrupted; his blue eyes alight with excitement.

               “Whatever you want.”

               Next on the birthday list of events was a trip to the zoo. Hamish had never been, and the weather was surprisingly mild enough to allow them a few hours looking at the lions and tigers and bears. John soaked it all in. The faint warmth from the rare sunshine. The excitement that seemed to be cascading from Hamish. The joy that was evident between Greg and Molly. And then there was Sherlock. Too often John had wondered if the detective could appreciate the small, beautiful things in life. But as he looked over at the man standing next to him, with his eyes closed and his face lifted towards the sun, John saw for the first time in a really long time just how human Sherlock Holmes was.

               The group of five (Mycroft had bailed on the excuse of work and Mrs. Hudson bowed out without any real excuse) made their way languidly from animal to animal. John knew it would change before too long. There would be another case eventually, so their peace wouldn’t last forever, but John was going to take every moment to memory until that time came.

* * *

              Later that night, John was saying good night to Lestrade and Molly at the front door while Sherlock remained upstairs, getting Hamish ready for bed.

               “Thank you both for coming.” The new couple smiled in response. “I’m really happy for the two of you.”

               “We’re really glad for you, too.” replied Greg.

               “Oh, yeah. I have a nice little family now. I never imagined…”

               “So it’s official then? Between the two of you?” John looked at Lestrade in confusion. “You’re together. Mrs. Hudson told us about this morning. I can’t say I’m surprised. I mean, I always suspected…”

               “Sherlock and I are not a couple,” John corrected quickly.

               “Oh, so you _don’t_ share a room now?” Greg asked. John started to interject, but couldn’t. “And you don’t share a bed where you both sleep in your underwear. You didn’t adopt a child to raise together. And you don’t steal glances at each other when you think the other can’t see you.” Lestrade let his words drift off as a sly smile crossed his lips and raised one eyebrow. He knew he had John cornered. Molly pursed her lips nervously. John didn’t know what to say. Before he could think of anything, his phone chimed.

               _—I have something to show you when you get back up here. SH_

               “Well, you two be safe,” John said shortly after as Greg hailed a taxi. “It’s supposed to storm tonight.” They said their goodbyes again and Greg and Molly climbed into the cab as the sky opened up with fat drops of rain. John waved again before rushing inside and taking the stairs two at a time. He found Sherlock sitting on the couch, Hamish fast asleep in his lap, head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock smiled sweetly as he looked up at John who pulled his phone out of his pocket and snapped a quick picture.

               “I tried reading to him,” Sherlock whispered. “He was so exhausted that he didn’t make it five pages in before he fell asleep. I may need help standing so that I can take him to bed.” John nodded. He couldn’t wipe the grin off of his face. Sherlock tucked his arm under Hamish for support, trying to lift and turn the boy as he simultaneously tried to stand. John grabbed on to Sherlock’s elbow and shoulder to keep him from falling backwards. Finally Sherlock managed to get Hamish facing him, with the boy’s arms around his neck and legs around his waist. He slowly ascended the stairs to tuck Hamish into bed. John waited at the foot of the stairs for his friend to return before the pair made their way to their own bed.

               When John woke up in the middle of the night, he was surprised to find a head using his arm as a pillow. He grabbed his phone from the bedside table for some light.

               “He came in here about ten minutes ago,” whispered Sherlock over their son, now sleeping between them. “The storm apparently frightened him. I’m surprised you slept through him crawling up the foot of the bed.” John was quiet for a beat. “I can take him back upstairs if you would like. I think the storm has passed,” Sherlock offered.

               “No,” whispered John. “No, let him sleep.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Six.                                                                                                                                   March 13**

Three more weeks passed with little excitement. Sherlock began assisting Lestrade with crime scenes again, only this time, he stayed under the radar. Anderson and Donovan made sure to keep their distance. “They felt guilty when they thought I had died,” Sherlock explained one night. “But now that I’m magically back from the dead, they’re not quite sure how to feel. In fact, I think my return has only strengthened Donovan’s suspicions about me.” John had stayed away from any crime scenes, as well as from Scotland Yard, since Sherlock’s fall. The doctor figured it was better to keep his distance. He had always blamed Donovan in a way, and he still had not managed to completely forgive her. Meanwhile, John had picked up writing in his blog again. Though it no longer received quite as much traffic as it had before, but this was fine with him. The duo had enrolled Hamish in a prestigious school for boys in London, again with the help of Mycroft’s letter of approval. Hamish’s essay, which he had actually written himself about the death of his parents, (and then gaining John and Sherlock as new parents) had earned him a decent tuition scholarship.

 

               Otherwise, life began to pick up where it had left off. The only real difference between then and now (apart from the addition of an incredibly intelligent eleven year old) was Sherlock. John had expected the _new Sherlock_ to wear off, but it hadn’t. He was more attentive, more communicative, and way more sentimental. And despite the fact that their son still called him “Mr. Sherlock”, he was as much a father to the boy as he would have been to a biological son. John was getting comfortable with his new life. Things were going right. He had a family, and a happy one at that. This alone should have been his warning.

               On one Wednesday afternoon in March, John walked out of his flat on Baker Street to pick up Hamish from school. He was met just outside by a black luxury car with tinted windows. A tall bald man stepped out of the driver’s seat and opened the back door for John. The doctor rolled his eyes as he climbed into the backseat. Unlike Mycroft’s past abductions, there was no woman accompanying him this time. John didn’t even try to speak with the driver. Instead, he simply leaned his head back and checked his watch. There were only twenty minutes remaining before Hamish’s school let out.

               After roughly ten minutes of driving, conveniently in the direction of the school, the car pulled over in front of the typical, Mycroft styled, abandoned warehouse. The driver again opened the back door for John and led the way in through the singular door without so much as a second glance in John’s direction. He checked his watch again and briefly considered texting Sherlock to have him pick up their son. Upon walking into the large open room, lined with windows, he became distracted from his previous thoughts.

               The driver shut the only door to the large room which John had entered through. The sound of his own footsteps echoed off of the bare walls. “Hello?” John called out. “Mycroft?” The room was completely empty save for a single table placed against the far wall. A laptop sat open on top. **_Press the space key_** was displayed across the monitor. Mycroft had always been one for theatrics, but John really didn’t have time for this. He considered walking out, but instead just rolled his eyes and let out a deep sigh as he slammed the space key. A video began to play. Surveillance video, the best John could tell.

               “Hello, Dr. Watson.” John didn’t recognize the deep, raspy voice that emerged from the laptop speakers. “The video you are watching is live feed from one of my facilities.”  The camera panned through the mostly empty room. For a moment, John thought it to be the room he was standing in. But the camera stopped on a light blurry figure sitting slumped in a chair. Slowly, the picture came into focus. When John could finally identify the person sitting in the chair, he had to hold on to the table to remain standing. There, displayed on the computer screen in front of him, sat his son, unconscious, bloody, and tied to a wooden chair. “Don’t worry. Hamish is very much alive. And he will remain so. You and your _partner,_ ” the rough voice practically spat the word, “will have your opportunity to save him. This computer will remain linked to the cameras. So you will be able to watch. You can witness as your son is tortured and starves. Know that he will suffer. Because this, Dr. Watson, the condition that he is in now, is bliss compared to where he will be by the time you get to him. So go ahead. Call your _precious Sherlock Holmes_ and do your best to try and save your child.” By the end of this speech, the voice sounded amused. As if there was absolutely no way that they would succeed. John hadn’t heard that tone, that air of playfulness concerning a crime scene, since Moriarty. John’s eyes pooled with tears; he was panicked and hyperventilating. He fumbled to pull his phone out of his pocket and dial his friend’s number. No answer. John almost pitched his phone through one of the many large windows. _Sod it, Sherlock, answer your bloody phone_ , he thought. John tried Lestrade’s number next.

               “John?” Lestrade answered.

               “Put him on the phone,” he barked. John was far too anxious to say anything else. After a brief shuffling, Sherlock’s deep voice projected from the phone’s speaker.

               “John? Is everything…”

               “Hamish,” the doctor blurted, half in a sob. “Sherlock, Hamish has been taken. I’m at a warehouse near the school. There’s a video…a camera. Sherlock, someone has our son.” Tears streaked down John cheeks as he rushed through his broken explanation of their current situation. He was trying desperately, and failing, to hold himself together.

               “I’m on my way.” The line went dead. Of course Sherlock knew exactly what warehouse would be close to the school. Instead of allowing himself to completely fall apart and go mad with worry, John left the room and began looking around the building for any clue as to who this man was or what he wanted. The car and driver had vanished, but he found tire marks in the dirt and gravel where they had parked. Eventually he went back inside to continue his search. But of course there was nothing to find. The driver had been wearing gloves. The floors, windows, and tabletop were spotless, free from dirt or dust. The computer appeared to be brand new, monitor and keys reflecting in the sunlight.

               After about ten minutes of pointless, frantic searching, John heard a car approaching outside. He stood in the doorway as Lestrade’s car, as well as two other police cars, pulled up. Sherlock was out of the car before it came to a complete stop and was sprinting to where John stood. The doctor turned without any sort of a greeting and led the way to the computer. The camera was still focused on Hamish. John couldn’t look without experiencing a wave of nausea. But upon Sherlock seeing his son on the screen, he immediately turned on Lestrade.

               “Get your techs in here immediately. Find out what source is feeding this computer its footage. Get forensics out here to sweep the building…” John walked over and gently, sadly, pressed the space key.

               “Hello Dr. Watson,” the recording began again. The entire room fell silent as they listened to the man’s words. John walked over to the far wall and slid his back down the concrete until he was sitting on the perfectly clean floor. As the voice concluded its threat, John buried his face in his arms, which were draped over his bent knees, and he let the tears fall. It wasn’t long before he heard soft footsteps approach. Sherlock similarly slid down the wall to sit beside the distressed doctor.

               “Tell me exactly what happened,” Sherlock commanded calmly with an almost comforting tone. John took a deep, shaky breath and then began his story, trying to remember every minor detail. Sherlock only interrupted to ask for more identifying characteristics of the driver or the car, or anything else that John could possibly remember. The detective was perfectly calm, not wanting to rush John through his retelling.

               “We have to find him, Sherlock. That boy has already been through more trauma than any person should ever have to go through, and he’s only eleven. He was supposed to be safe with us. We were supposed to _protect_ him.” John was practically shouting now, his pulse racing, tears falling. He placed a shaky hand over his heart. The familiar, piercing pain that used to reside there had returned, and somehow, intensified. Sherlock reached over and placed his hand on the one that John still had resting on his knees and gave a gentle, reassuring squeeze. The contact, though abnormal, was more comforting than anything else he could have done. John slowly began to regain his composure.

               “We’ll find him, John. I promise. I will find our son.” Sherlock was staring blankly straight ahead, still grasping John’s hand. Suddenly, a new voice, one that was weak, one that belonged to a young boy, came through the speakers. “Hamish,” Sherlock said in a panicked whisper. They both stood and ran over to the table. Hamish was awake in the chair, looking around for someone he knew, for his fathers.

               “Dad?” Hamish called. “Mr. Sherlock?” He looked around frantically and finally seemed to find the camera. John wanted so much to call out to him, to run to him. But that was impossible. “Mr. Sherlock! It’s the man. I saw the man again.” Suddenly a tall figure appeared on camera. The only identifiable factor was that it was a man. Every inch of his body had been covered so that even his race was unidentifiable. The man walked over to Hamish, who had stopped talking. Using one swift blow with what looked like a pistol, the man struck the boy across the face, knocking him unconscious. John turned away from the monitor, running into Sherlock. He stopped there, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s chest while the detective stood there awkwardly. Sherlock lifted his right hand, placing it on John’s arm, giving a gentle squeeze.

               “We’ll find him, John,” Sherlock said in a deep menacing voice, spoken through gritted teeth.

               “Sherlock,” John started, looking up at his friend before taking a small step back. “What did he mean? Who is _the man_ that he saw?”

               “Moran,” Sherlock practically growled.

               “I thought… You said that he had gone into hiding. You said there had been no sign of him in over a year.”

               “Apparently he decided to come out and play.” Sherlock didn’t use the word _play_ in the way that John remembered from past cases with Moriarty. This wasn’t a game this time. There was not giggling or excitement. In fact, John wasn’t sure that he had ever seen the man so determined or quite so frightening. Sherlock began pacing quickly, his mind racing. John could literally see his deductions of the room, table and computer in progress.

               “Hold your people outside while he thinks,” John whispered to Lestrade. The Detective Inspector nodded and motioned for the handful of cops in the room to step outside. While he watched Sherlock think, John half sat on the edge of the table, trying not to get in the way. He only interrupted when he heard the forensics team arrive. “Sherlock? What do you think? Where do we start?”

               “Zero.”

               “I’m sorry? What about zero?”

               “I have zero ideas,” Sherlock admitted distractedly. “The source of the video feed will be untraceable. The man who drove you here will either go deep underground or he will be executed. Even the serial number for the computer will be sanded off or unregistered, or stolen. Moran will have left us absolutely no clues because he isn’t ready for us to find Hamish yet. We have to _wait._ ” By now, John was used to keeping up with Sherlock as he sped through his list of possibilities at a crime scene. This was a short list, but John knew the rest of it. The floor had been swept and probably mopped and buffed so that there would be no footprints. There would be no fingerprints either. They were only allowed to see the video because whoever Moran was, he knew that it would cause them more pain this way. Suddenly, John felt like he was going to be sick. He had half expected for Sherlock to have this whole thing solved by now. “John, Moran knows how I think. He has been taught by the best, studying me for years, waiting for me to step out of the shadows and show my face again.” Sherlock stopped pacing and looked around the empty room. A crease appeared between his eyebrows.

               “I sent them out so that you could think,” John offered as an explanation to the unasked question. Sherlock looked back at the screen that showed Hamish still unconscious. He turned and quickly made his way out of the building, barking orders at the forensics team to get to work inside. By the time John had also made it outside, all he could see of Sherlock was the tall silhouette of the man as he walked alone down the empty road. John considered running after him, but thought better of it. He knew Sherlock thought better when he was alone. And anything John could do to speed up the process of getting their son back, he was going to do. After a moment, John went back inside to see if he could help in any way.

               After hours at the warehouse, the only thing they discovered was that Sherlock had been right. It was all a waste of time. The only excitement came when Hamish woke up again. The covered figure came back into view, this time with a pair of scissors. He cut Hamish’s shirt off before placing the blade against Hamish’s chest and pressing hard, sliding the steel blade into the boy’s skin. Blood spilled from the six inch gash and John could only stand there and watch. Absolutely **_helpless_** _._ He watched as his son yelled out in agony, as he screamed and cried. John himself cried as Hamish was cut two more times, each cut just below the one before. When it was finally over and them man had stuck a needle in Hamish’s arm, knocking him out cold, John ran outside to throw up. He tried calling Sherlock. No answer. This time, John did throw his phone. It hit the side of the building, pieces shattering off. Lestrade came out and put his hand on John’s shoulder.

               “Go home, John,” Lestrade said gently.

               “You are fucking delusional if you think I’m just going to go home and go to bed while I wait for this man to do something else.”

               “There isn’t much else you can do. There are no leads, no clues, no demands. We have nothing to go on. It looked like they gave him a sedative. He’ll be sleeping for a while. I have a bad feeling that they’re going to want to drag this out. The one advantage to this is that it gives us more time to look for him. But for now, go home. Check on Sherlock. I’ll give you a call if he wakes up. We’re recording the footage now, so…”

               “Can you send it to me?” John interrupted. “Can you find a way for me to watch it from home?”

               “I’ll have the techs work on getting that done. In the meantime, go home. Make sure Sherlock hasn’t come up with anything new.” John nodded and walked over to pick up the pieces of his phone. Somehow, the screen hadn’t shattered. He popped the battery back in and slid the back cover on before pressing the power button. Amazingly, it turned on.

               “Can I get a lift?” Lestrade nodded and led the way over to his car, informing one of the officers where he was going and to call if anything changed.

               Back at their flat, John made his way up the flight of stairs to the lounge. The pain in his chest was so intense that he could barely breathe. He made it to the lounge only to find it empty. “Sherlock?” he called out. He checked the kitchen and their bedroom, both were likewise void. John didn’t know where else Sherlock would have gone and he refused to believe that something bad had happened to him as well. As a last resort, he made his way up the stairs to his old room, just to check. There he found the consulting detective curled up on their son’s bed, staring off into space. John watched Sherlock for a moment as he sat there. His shirt was untucked, the top two buttons undone. His watch was sitting on the bedside table, and in his hands sat a small stuffed dragon.

               “Where were you?” The deep voice startled John when Sherlock finally spoke. He was a little confused by the question and briefly thought about replying with sarcasm. _I was out to the zoo. Thought it a perfect day…_

“I was at the warehouse watching foot…”

               “No,” Sherlock turned his cold stare on John and stood swiftly. The doctor took a step back instinctively. “Where were you when he was taken?”

               “What?” John couldn’t believe what he had just been asked. There was an accusatory tone to Sherlock’s words. He couldn’t possibly be _blaming_ John, could he? “I…I dropped him off at school this morning, like I always do. He waved at me from the front door of the building, like he always does. Then I came home and worked until it was time for me to go pick him up.”

               “He never made it to class,” Sherlock growled.

               “I’m sorry, what?” John crossed his arms over his chest, forcing himself to stay calm. He knew this was just Sherlock’s way of dealing with his worry. Sadly, John was used to getting beat on a little by his friend when things got rough.

               “Hamish never made it to his first class today. So somebody abducted our son somewhere between him waving at you at the doors and his classroom.” Sherlock rounded on John, invading his personal space. But this time, the soldier stood his ground. “Where were you? Why didn’t you walk him to his class?” Sherlock was seething, but still, John stood his ground, staring up at the detective with a determined stare. He took a long, shaking breath to calm his building frustration.

               “Because he is eleven, Sherlock” John snapped through gritted teeth. He was losing his patience fast. “And I’m not going to baby him. This was planned. I hate it, but they were going to get their hands on Hamish one way or another. But blaming this on me or in any way insinuating that any part of this was _my_ fault is heartless.” John was yelling now, but tears were again spilling from his eyes. Sherlock’s accusation had already crossed John’s mind several times today. He had to tell himself that it hadn’t been his fault to keep from going mad.

               “You’re right,” Sherlock whispered, turning away from him now. “It’s mine.”

               “I…what?” John asked. He took the tall brunette by the crook of his elbow and made Sherlock turn to face him. And in that moment, that expression, John saw how truly broken Sherlock was. This wasn’t like the time he had doubted his own intellect, or his mind. This was worry. This was pain from not being able to help someone he cared about. This was… _human._

               “Sherlock this is not…” Sherlock fell to his knees, placing his hands on the rug for support. He placed a hand over his mouth to hold back a sob. Finally he sat back and looked up at John.

               “It is. It’s my fault.” He hung his head, tears escaping. John had never seen him so _defeated_. “I was so obsessed with Moriarty, and then with Moran, that I used the boy to find leads. I could have stayed hidden. Hamish would be safe in the orphanage. Even if I had still asked him questions, I didn’t have to bring up the topic of adoption. I could have followed leads and then disappeared again. But he reminded me so much of you and I wanted…” Sherlock’s tears streamed. “I wanted to see you again. You’re my only friend, John. I couldn’t stay away. And because of my obsession I brought the boy into all of this as well. _I_ have done this to our son because I couldn’t just stay hidden.” Sherlock ran his hands through his hair and gripped tightly, letting another sob escape his lips. John closed the distance, placing a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. The detective wrapped his arms around John’s waist and held on for his life. “This is all my fault. I’m so sorry, John. I’m so sorry.” He continued to repeat his apology over and over into John’s shirt. John squared his shoulders like the soldier he once was. He would be strong. He would be calm. He would be brave when Sherlock Holmes could no longer be. John would find the strength for them both. He gently placed his hands on Sherlock’s head, petting the raven curls.

               “We’ll find him,” John tried to reassure. “We will find Moran. We will get our son back. This is not your fault, Sherlock. We’ll get him back. We **_have_** to get him back.” 


	7. Chapter 7

**Seven.                                                                                                                                       March 23**

               Ten days. It had been ten days since Hamish had been abducted. Each day, the torture had gotten worse. They had hung him from a hook by his wrists for the last two days, causing his shoulders to pop out of place. His left eye was swollen shut from multiple blows. His right, nearly so. He had cuts completely covering his chest. John was fairly certain some of them reached the bone. But the faceless torturer was careful. There was never enough damage done to kill Hamish. Only enough to kill the souls and the hope of his fathers.

 

               John and Sherlock had given up food, not that the latter ate much anyways. John spent days in front of the computer, obsessing, unable to move. He had run out of tears to cry a week before. He didn’t sleep. He blogged, but only to ask people to help him find his son. And if things were bad for John, they were worse for Sherlock. He had been beat, defeated. Moran was careful to leave absolutely no clues. There was no evidence for the detective to trace. To make matters worse, they moved Hamish every three days. So no matter what, Scotland Yard and the consulting detective were always a step behind.

               Five days after his son had been taken, Sherlock found himself down at Scotland Yard, in the middle of a full breakdown. “Do you even _care?!_ ” He had turned on Donovan that afternoon, towering over her in his long coat. His eyes were ice, soulless. “I bet you’re enjoying this. Oh, this is just the _freak’s_ son. It’s okay that he is being tortured within an inch of his _bloody life_ because it makes the **_freak_ ** show emotion, and that’s fun to watch!” Donovan had cowered, unable to take her terror filled eyes off of Sherlock. Lestrade had to actually stand in front of Sherlock and push him back into the Detective Inspector’s office, locking the door and closing the blinds behind them.

               “Sherlock,” Lestrade had tried to stay patient, consoling. “I need you to go home.” Sherlock had shot Greg a glare so filled with ice and hatred that it sent a fearful chill through Greg’s spine. “Go home and sit with John. See if you can talk this through with him. I can’t let you in here anymore.” Sherlock only continued to glare. Lestrade scratched the back of his head in nervousness. “You’re too close to this one. As you should be. It’s your son. And no, that doesn’t make it fun for us. It makes it worse. To see you so… _sentimental_ …and to see John so… Look. We’ve seen what is happening to him. He is a child. One that we have gotten to know and love. I don’t know how else to comfort you and John but to assure you that I will not rest until I help you find him. Now. Go home. You can call me, and _only_ me, if you think of something.” His words had been soft, kind, but with a definite finality to them. Sherlock stood and blew out of the room in a blind rage. But by the time he made it back to the flat, his rationality had been restored.

               “Any luck at Scotland Yard?” John asked when he had heard Sherlock ascend the stairs.

               “Lestrade kicked me off the case,” Sherlock managed to say with a shrug and a roll of his eyes.

               “He what? But you’re…”

               “Too close to it. I can’t be objective. And I might have made Donovan fear for her life.” This made John smile for the first time in days.

               Now here they were, another five days later, still unable to solve the case. It was growing late in the evening and Sherlock was perched in the chair next to his friend as they watched the computer, his fingers were steepled in front of his mouth as he concentrated.

               “Sherlock?” John asked after he had grown numb for sitting in the same position for hours.

               “Hmm?” The deep voice emerged from the back of Sherlock’s throat. He looked over at John with an exhausted blue stare.

               “The day we adopted Hamish,” John looked down at the floor. Something had occurred to him. But he wasn’t sure if now was the time to bring it up. On the other hand, taking his mind off of everything that was going on, even if just for a moment, might not be such a bad idea. Sherlock continued to watch the doctor in silence. Waiting patiently. “You were the one talking to me on my computer, weren’t you?”

               “Yes, of course,” Sherlock said softly. John could feel the detective analyzing every detail of his expression and mood, taking it all in.

               “So…” John looked up at Sherlock, but he quickly averted his eyes somewhere else. “So you know, then.”

               “I know a lot of things, John. You’ll have to be more specific.” John could feel the blood rush to his face, spreading across his cheeks with a nice, bright blush.

               “I was talking about…and then you asked me if I really…and I was going to ignore…but I told you yes.” John pinched the bridge of his nose while he shut his eyes. Sherlock would just have to put the pieces together because there was no way John was going to actually be able to say the words. Not out loud. Not to his face.

               “Oh…” Sherlock looked down. His fingers made a light trail around his lips while he thought. John blushed brighter in the silence. He should have just left well enough alone. “Tell me something,” Sherlock said softly. John lifted his gaze. “I assumed from your lack of response that day that you didn’t see my reply to all of that.” John thought back. He had made the big speech about loving Sherlock and then he had asked to be left alone. But what had happened after that?

               “No…” John said slowly. “You asked me if I really… Then I told you… And then I went and made a fresh pot of tea. By time I got back to my computer, you were gone.” How much more awkward could this conversation get? Then his friend’s words hit him. “Wait. You responded? To what I said that day?” Sherlock only lifted an eyebrow while a smile played at the corner of his mouth. “What did uh… What did you… say?” John was back to staring at the floors.

               Sherlock chuckled behind closed lips, a crease forming at the corners of both of his eyes. “Hand me my laptop, please, John.” The doctor did as he was told, retrieving the computer from the kitchen table. He handed it to Sherlock before resuming his position seated at the desk. It wasn’t long before Sherlock had found what he was looking for. He turned the laptop around and passed it to John. “Read for yourself.” John hesitantly reached for the computer, watching Sherlock’s sober expression the entire time. The man gave no evidence as to what might be waiting for John.

               A text box was pulled up, identical to the one from John’s computer on that Valentine’s Day morning. John immediately recognized the first message. The smiley face. He looked up at the yellow face spray-painted to their wall and then looked back down at the text box.

                

               **JW:** _Yes, I did. I do. I’m sorry, but I can’t talk about this with you, whoever you are. I’m trying to have a life after_ him _. So if you wouldn’t mind, please stop asking questions that are none of your business._

               That was where John remembered leaving off. He had stood to pour out his cold tea. But there was a line, a response typed below that John had never seen. He stared at it in disbelief now.

 

               **ME:** _I love you too. –SH_

 

               After several minutes of silence, John slowly closed the laptop and set it beside his own on top of the desk. To say that he was confused, stunned, bewildered, and yet, somehow overjoyed, was an understatement. His feelings for Sherlock had developed before he could put a name to them. And then _the fall_ had happened. But now. Now things were, in a way, back to normal. They lived together and worked together. But there was also uncharted territory in their relationship as well. They had a son together. And apparently, they loved each other. _Who could have seen this coming,_ he thought to himself. He rolled his eyes as he thought back to the night of Hamish’s birthday and his conversation with Lestrade. _Apparently everybody_. John looked back at the computer screen where Hamish sat, passed out from another tranquilizer.

               “John,” Sherlock said gently. “You haven’t said anything for about fifteen minutes now. Do you have…questions or,” Sherlock stopped when John turned to him, preparing to say something. But when their eyes met again, John only closed his mouth. A crease was well developed between his eyes.

               “So…” John finally started, after Sherlock was certain the doctor wasn’t going to reply at all. “So are you…are you _in…_ ”

               “Yes.” Sherlock interrupted. There was no point in offering more of an explanation. He could tell John that he had spent a majority of the last three years at war with his feelings. He had never really known love before, and so he hadn’t known how to recognize it. But the absence of a love that had once been there, that had brought the detective to the right deduction. John was the only one he had ever loved, and absence from the doctor made Sherlock’s world dim. “You are my conductor of light, John.” A small smile played at John’s mouth as he nervously rubbed his neck. His gaze was distant, contemplative. Sherlock had never been a patient man, but he would wait for John.

               Their moment was interrupted by John’s phone chiming from across the room. The doctor stood and picked up his phone from the mantle. He was still distracted, so it took a moment for the words of the text message to sink in.

 

               _Stay calm. If you want to see your son alive again, you will obey my following instructions exactly. Rule number 1: If you tell, hint to, or in any way act like something is unusual in front of Sherlock Holmes, you will get to watch your son die from the comfort of your own flat._

 

               John clenched his jaw as he read and re-read the text. “John? Is there a problem?” John inhaled deeply before forcing a tight grin on his face.

               “It’s fine, Sherlock. It’s just Lestrade checking on us. I um… I’m exhausted. I think I’m going to go lie down.” John turned and headed down the hall to the room he and Sherlock shared. He felt Sherlock staring after him. This wasn’t really the way that either of them had expected the conversation to end. It was strange, walking back into the room. They hadn’t shared the bed in days, but it felt more like months. John removed his shirt and pants and crawled into bed. He needed it to be convincing in case Sherlock decided to check on him. John crawled into bed, his back facing the bedroom door. He really was exhausted. So much so that he didn’t even realize that he had fallen asleep until his phone vibrated in his hand.

 

               _Very good. Now. Rule number 2: You will need to sneak out. If he catches you or follows you, I can promise that I will kill Hamish._

 

               John sat up. Sneaking out would be difficult. Sherlock never missed anything. But John would have to find a way. He pulled on a pair of sweat pants and walked back into the lounge, preparing what excuse he would give his friend as to why he was leaving in the middle of the night. But Sherlock wasn’t at the desk. John looked around and found his friend sound asleep on the couch. He watched the detective snore gently for a moment. If Hamish were home, things would be perfect. He could wake Sherlock, take him by the hand and lead him to their bed where they could talk more about what being in love would mean for their relationship. _But things aren’t perfect_ , he thought as he looked back to his son on the computer. The covered man was standing behind the still sleeping Hamish, staring up at the camera. He tapped his left wrist with his index finger. Time was limited. John rushed back to the bedroom. He threw on a shirt and shoes. Before he quietly snuck down the stairs and out the door, he wrote a quick note and left it on his pillow for Sherlock to find later.

 

               _I’m sorry. They gave me a chance to get our son back. Come find us. Please. But if something happens. Just know. I’m sorry. And I love you._

 

               John received his final text message as he locked the door to their flat.

 

               _Rule number 3: Turn left. Walk to the end of the street. A car will be waiting for you there._

              

               John sighed and turned left. He stopped briefly and looked back at the flat. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” he said into the wind before turning and walking off into the darkness.


	8. Chapter 8

**Eight.**

            John recognized the black luxury car, hidden within the darkness of the night, at the end of the street. The same driver stepped out of the driver’s seat and opened the back door. John had to fight the building urge to punch him. Instead he balled his fists and climbed into the back without a word. In the silence of the car, John was left to his thoughts. He remembered back to his childhood, growing up with Harry. He even thought about the time she had first told him that she was gay. He hadn’t said anything, good or bad, he just pulled her into a tight hug and held her there for what had felt like hours. It wasn’t as if it was much of a surprise to John. She had always been tough. Hell, there were times she was stronger than he was. She had been the one that suggested that he join the military after he had finished his schooling. _It’ll be exciting,_ she had said. And it had been. The combat. The action. Even being shot had been thrilling. John remembered that day vividly. Being hit, not really feeling it at first until his body had time to recognize the state it was in. He had been certain then that he was going to die. But all of that chaos just brought a small, sad smile to his face. If he had thought he would die then, he had no doubt now. There was only one way that he would be able to walk away from all of this and that was if Moran decided to give up on this game that he was playing. _No_. John did not expect to walk away from this. _And you know, I’m okay with that as long as it means Hamish can live._

 

            What John wasn’t okay with, was leaving Sherlock. _If I die…_ The image of his best friend lying bloody and lifeless on the ground, flashed through John’s mind. He clenched his jaw and shut his eyes, trying to block out his memory. That day had made John think carefully about his own death. He had considered it. A lot. Too often he had wondered if people would even be surprised if he committed suicide. Nobody would mourn the doctor in the same way that he had mourned the loss of Sherlock Holmes. But now? How would Sherlock mourn John? How would he deal with the loss of his one friend? _You are my conductor of light_ , _John_. Sherlock’s words resonated within John’s mind. _And then there’s that_ , he thought. Sherlock loved him. Like actually loved him. Was _in_ love with him. But he would have to be strong. Maybe, just maybe, if Hamish lived, Maybe Sherlock wouldn’t resort to drastic measures to cope over the loss. John knew there was a history of drugs. But he had no idea how many vices Sherlock actually had. They were well hidden. But hopefully, if Sherlock knew he still had a son to look after, maybe he would decide to… _to live_. For the both of them.

            Finally the car came to a stop. John had been so distracted by his thoughts that he hadn’t even noticed that they had pulled into some sort of small parking garage. It was completely closed off from the outside world, indicating that they were underground. The tall, bald man again opened John’s door for him before leading the way through the empty garage, not even turning to make sure John was following. They turned right, down a narrow hallway, which was lit with blue fluorescent lights that had a faint humming. Now John thought back to everything that happened to him over the last few years. It came as no surprise to him that so many of these memories were centered around his time with Sherlock. Their first case. Holidays spent together. Trips to Scotland. The rare moments when his friend would let his guard down just enough that John could get a peek at what was so carefully hidden inside. And then there was what had happened tonight. Despite all of the shit that was going on in their lives, nothing that came next could take that away from him.

            The man leading John made a sudden right down another narrow hallway. This one had doors evenly spaced, every forty meters or so. They entered through the last one on the right. Again, the man left John alone in the room, closing the door behind him as he retreated. Once alone, John let out a deep sigh before looking around. Going along with what he was beginning to believe was customary, the room was completely empty. A door on the opposite wall was cracked slightly. John walked over and peeked out into the completely unlit hallway beyond. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to stay put or if this door was left open for a reason. But everything about Moran was calculated, so accidentally leaving a door open… _Sod this_ , he thought, as he jerked open the heavy steel door.

            Beyond the empty room, John stepped into the dark hallway, the only light coming from behind him. Despite that, he returned the door to its original position before proceeding through the darkness. Before long, John had to place his hand on the concrete wall to help guide his way. The doctor continued forward for what felt like ages, submerging himself into greater and greater depths. The silence of his surroundings put as much pressure on John as being twenty meters underwater would. His senses were at maximum capacity, desperately searching for anything. Any sign of life at all.

            That was when he heard it. The scream. The soul crushing, mind-numbing cry that John had grown acquainted with over the past ten days. “Hamish…” he muttered as he took of in an almost full sprint in the direction of the cries, trailing his left hand along the wall beside him and reaching his right out in front of him to keep himself from running into anything. Tears had begun to pour from his eyes. John had learned to match each cry of pain from his son with the particular punishment being done to him. Right now, they were cutting him again. John paused briefly as his thoughts went back to Sherlock. The screams would wake him, that is if he had managed to sleep this long. Soon he would find the empty bedroom. The note. Everything was coming to a head now.

            Finally, John found another cracked door just as Hamish abruptly stopped screaming. He must have passed out from the pain. As much as it hurt John to know that his son was in enough pain to pass out from the sheer agony of it all, John sighed in relief each time. At least while Hamish was passed out, he wasn’t feeling it. John burst through the door. The room contained nothing special apart from a top-of-the-line video camera sitting elevated atop a tripod. The camera was focused on what could only be described as a slumped pile of flesh sitting across the room. Whoever had been torturing Hamish was now gone. John ran over to the chair, but had to stop short. He had seen death in his days. And gore. And even torture. But this… How could one _ever_ come back from this?

            Blood poured from the boy’s fresh wounds. His eyes had completely swollen shut. His right arm wasn’t properly back in its socket. His left leg very well could have been broken. Instead of allowing himself to dwell on the terror that was before his eyes, he got to work on trying to fix his son. John took hold of Hamish’s arm and lifted quickly as he forced the shoulder back into its socket. He removed his own long sleeved shirt so that he could create a makeshift sling. But he stopped short before placing the tied sleeves over his son’s neck. Through the blood, both fresh and dried, was a message, carved into the chest of the innocent eleven-year-old boy. John used part of his shirt to soak up the still bleeding wounds. He thanked god that Hamish was still unconscious through all of this. _GET SHERLOCK_ was etched in block letters across Hamish’s chest. The letters had been done fractions at a time so that the message had just become legible during the most recent set of cuts. Tears again spilled out of John’s eyes as he tried to clean the wounds. Even if they all somehow survived this, those wounds, that message, would stay with Hamish for the rest of his life. And it would absolutely destroy Sherlock.

            Just as John had set Hamish’s shoulder back in place and used his shirt to hold it, a searing pain spread across the entire right side of his ribcage, knocking him breathless onto the floor. When he could finally breathe again, he rolled to see the covered figure, the torturer, standing over him. With one careful swing of a wooden bag to the side of his head, John was knocked unconscious.

* * *

            _John awoke to the sound of Sherlock at work again on the violin. He recognized the tune being played, but he couldn’t put a name to it. The doctor rolled out of bed and found his sweats draped across a chair in the corner, waiting for him. He pulled them on before he seemingly floated through the flat to the lounge. Hamish, who was sitting on the couch, his nose buried in a book, looked up at him and smiled. There was something that John was forgetting. Something ringing around in the back of his mind. But he couldn’t place it. Sherlock turned from gazing out the window to face John._

_“Did you get enough sleep?” he asked as he placed his violin back in its case. John smiled and nodded as his partner made his way gracefully over to John, wrapping his arms around the doctor’s waist before placing a kiss gently on John’s lips. That same feeling came over John; a little voice telling him that this was abnormal. He should feel weird or awkward about what was happening. But he didn’t. John smiled as he returned Sherlock’s embrace, resting his head in the crook of the neck belonging to the raven-haired man. Eventually he looked up into the bright blue eyes belonging to the only man that John had ever loved._

_“I had a thought,” he started. Sherlock closed his eyes, soaking up every detail of the moment they were sharing._

_“Hmm…” Sherlock hummed his response as he rested his cheek on the top of John’s head._

_“Would you be interested in teaching me to play the violin?” Sherlock looked down at John in confusion. “It’s just, you play so well and I’ve always wanted to learn to play an instrument. If you could be patient with me,” and John knew that would be a big ‘if’, “then I would like to learn to play.” A fleeting smile flashed across Sherlock’s face before he turned and picked up the violin, leaving the bow in the case. He handed John the instrument and the soldier placed it awkwardly under his chin. The deep baritone of Sherlock’s laugh filled the air. “Alright, Sherlock, if you’re going to make fun of me, we can forget the whole thing.” Hamish put down his much used copy of_ The Hobbit _to watch his parents interact._

_“Oh don’t be like that, John.” Sherlock said with a flick of his hand. “Here, let me help.” The lean man slid to where he was standing behind John, placing both of his skilled hands on the doctor’s shoulders. He slowly glided his left hand along the outside of John’s arm, guiding the doctor’s fingers to their proper places on the strings that were stretched tight across the fingerboard. “You want to press hard with the tips of your fingers,” Sherlock breathed onto the back of John’s neck, sending shivers down his spine. John closed his eyes as he focused on steadying his breathing and slowing his heart rate._

_“Hamish,” he said, literally breathless, “would you mind going up to your room to read?”_

_“But I want to hear you play,” the boy argued, not fully understanding what was passing between the two men._

_“I’ll surprise you with how good I am after lunch. Then I will teach you myself how to play. But for now, I want you to go on upstairs and read your book.”_

_“Or you can work on your Italian,” Sherlock added, his lips still dangerously close to John’s flesh. Finally Hamish agreed and darted his way up the stairs to his room. It wasn’t long before they heard fragments of broken Italian drifting down from above._

_Gently, Sherlock wrapped his right hand around John’s waist, making sure his “pupil” had proper posture, all the while pressing himself as close as he could get against John’s body. “Like this,” he whispered in the blonde’s ear, sending a fresh set of chills through John’s body. Sherlock added pressure on John’s fingertips before unwillingly letting go of his waist in order to slowly pull the bow across the strings, releasing a soft, telling tone into the air. It was actually quite beautiful. He couldn’t believe that he had produced the sound. Well, with Sherlock’s help, of course. John was presented with the bow after the single note had finished resonating through the air. He took it gingerly in his hand and pushed the hair across the strings at the same speed as before. The sound that emerged from the instrument this time was not nearly as smooth as when Sherlock had guided him. The detective, still standing behind John, now with both of his arms around John’s waist, let out a quiet, deep throated, chuckle. He pressed his lips to the back of John’s neck and worked his way down onto his bare shoulder. John stifled a moan._

_“Do you think Hamish would notice if we disappeared to the bedroom for a few?” Sherlock purred in John’s ear. The doctor didn’t hesitate to put the violin back in its case before turning to face Sherlock, curling himself into the man’s embrace. He reached up to place a longing kiss on Sherlock’s mouth._

_“Not if we’re quick,” he replied. The two laced their fingers together and made their way back to the bedroom that they shared. John didn’t consider the fact that they were being irresponsible parents. He only knew that he wanted Sherlock because it had been so long since they had been together. With the door closed behind them, John crawled into bed and under the blankets, again loosing his sweats in the process. Sherlock stood on the far side of the bed, unfastening each white button of his deep purple shirt with a calculated look of desire and prowess in his eyes._

_“John,” Sherlock said, his voice sounding much more distant and panicked than expected. “John, are you okay? Please John. Please be alive.” John went to answer Sherlock’s unnerving pleading voice but no words came out when he moved his lips. Suddenly, a strong, foul smell hit his senses._

“John!” he heard his name called again.

“Sherlock?” he asked, his voice weak. John looked down at himself, trying to become reacquainted with his surroundings. Hadn’t he just been in the comfort of his own bed, waiting for Sherlock to join him? Preparing himself for something that was supposed to be wonderful? He started to move, to get up and walk towards Sherlock’s voice, but he was stopped both by restraints around his wrists and ankles as well as by a familiar searing pain in his head, chest, and side. John’s eyes tried again to focus. He looked down. He was covered in a deep red substance. Wet. Sticky. _Is that blood?_

Suddenly everything came rushing back to him. The abduction, the torture, the text messages and the note left for Sherlock… Finding Hamish… Then there had been the man with the bat. He jerked his head up in realization, almost causing him to black out from the reanimated pain pounding his skull.

“John!” Sherlock called again. John searched the room frantically with his eyes for the owner of the voice that he had been dreaming of.

“You see, Sherlock,” came a slimy, slightly familiar, dark voice, “I told you I didn’t kill him. Now, it’s time to make your choice.”

“I cannot!” Sherlock screamed back at the hidden figure in a mixture of pure agony and uncontrolled anger.

“Then you will lose them both. Fine by me,” the voice called out, clearly amused at the way things were going. Slowly, John began to put the pieces of the conversation together. He looked to his left and found Hamish strapped to a chair in a similar manner as John. He knew what was happening now. He knew what was coming next. And as he accepted this fact, he called out to his best friend, his love, _his Sherlock_.

“You have to choose, Sherlock. It’s okay. I love you. Just please… You have to choose.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Nine.**

Sherlock awoke with a start. It took only moments for him to reestablish his bearings, before he realized what had pulled him out of his REM cycle in the first place. He looked to the computer. The tall covered figured blocked the view of the boy he was cutting into. If Hamish hadn’t been on the receiving end of the blade, Sherlock would be tempted to compliment the man on his technique. He was graceful in his movements. Fluid, like a dancer. Hamish’s voice cracked. He had been screaming so much, for so long, Sherlock was surprised that he had a voice at all.

            “John!” he called over his shoulder in the direction of the hallway. He waited only a second before he called again. “ _John_!” Still no answer. It had been days since the doctor had slept in their bed. He was probably out cold from exhaustion. But he would want to be awake for this. If he missed it, John would just insist on rewinding the footage and Sherlock would have to hear it all over again. _No._ The detective turned to head to the bedroom. As he reached the door, the screaming suddenly stopped. Sherlock released a sigh of relief. There was nothing like the screams of sheer agony to make a father, even one as emotionally distant as Sherlock, weak with sentiment. He loathed the feeling. “John?” he called again as he rapped gently on the door before opening it. He pushed the door open when he again received no answer. The bed was empty. “John!” he called louder as he rushed from the bedroom to the washroom, to the walk-in closet, and up the stairs to their son’s room, searching frantically for his friend.

            Eventually, he ended up back in their room. John had definitely slept there, if only for a few moments. Then he saw it. The folded piece of paper lying gently on the top of John’s pillow. _How had I missed it before?_ Somehow, Sherlock knew what it had to say before he ever opened it.

            _I’m sorry. They gave me a chance to get our son back. Come find us. If something happens. Please know. I’m sorry. And I love you._

Sherlock read and re-read the note. The text message, _obviously_. He had gone to bed straight after receiving it. Sherlock had been too tired to question his actions. Quickly, he ran back into the lounge. _How long ago had John left? Did he leave any other clues behind?_ The computer now displayed an empty chair with pools of blood around it. Sherlock pulled his phone out of his dressing gown pocket so that he could send a text to Lestrade. Typically, in tense situations such as this, even Sherlock preferred to call, but at this moment, he didn’t trust his voice not to crack. _Baker Street. Now. Bring back up._ He received a reply almost immediately. _On our way._ Sherlock pressed the button on the laptop to rewind the video recording while he stood back in horror. He saw John being dragged back on screen, being hit in reverse, and then tending to their son’s injuries. Sherlock paused the camera and had to fast forward again briefly when the zoom of the camera changed for the first time since this whole ordeal had started. John was standing in the way when the zoom first began. But when the doctor stepped back, his face covered with his hand, the screen displayed clearly what it was that had so disturbed the normally fearless soldier. _GET SHERLOCK_ was carved clearly within the flesh of their son. Sherlock paused the playback before drifting over to his chair, perching on the back of it, thinking. Thinking. _Thinking_. Trying desperately not to look at the message.

            Lestrade took far longer to reach the flat than Sherlock thought was necessary, but finally, the Detective Inspector burst through the door downstairs, four of his officers, including Donovan and Anderson, in his stead. Lestrade climbed the stairs two at a time, his focus went straight to Sherlock, who, despite his best efforts, was staring at the laptop. Greg followed the consulting detective’s gaze.

            “Is that… _blood?_ ” he asked. The camera was zoomed in to the point that it was not evident that the message was carved into Hamish’s chest.

            “Press play,” Sherlock said, moving his steepled fingers from in front of his lips to under his chin. Lestrade did as he was instructed. As the video began to play and Sherlock saw the collective looks of horror on all of their faces, he stood and walked back into his bedroom, throwing on a pair of rarely worn jeans and a t-shirt that he wore inside out. He grabbed John’s gun that was tucked away inside the closet and, after double-checking that it was loaded and that the safety was on, placed it gently in the waistband of his trousers. Sherlock was putting on his coat as he returned to join the small police force, which stood silent in a shocked, horrified trance. The bodies, both that of John’s and Hamish’s, were being dragged separately out of the shot of the camera. Sherlock opened his own laptop, logged onto John’s email and traced the signal of John’s cell phone to its last active location. The signal was surprisingly still active, pinpointing an area about twenty minutes away from where they stood on Baker Street.

            “He’s ready for me to find them,” Sherlock said, his voice an undercurrent tone from the commotion that was beginning to fill the room. His phone chimed. Sherlock pulled it from his hip pocket, reading the message from an unknown number quickly to himself. _I have something of yours that I think you’re going to want back._ Sherlock repocketed his phone and wrapped his scarf around his neck. “Let’s go,” he barked at Lestrade, heading down the flight stairs at almost a run. Footsteps were heard immediately behind him. Without a second thought about who might have ridden with Lestrade to the flat, Sherlock climbed into the passenger seat. As they took off in the direction of the warehouse, Greg called for additional backup. “And an ambulance,” Sherlock said, a knot forming in the pit of his stomach. He was anxious, and he absolutely hated it. For the entire ride, Lestrade shot questions at Sherlock about the case. _When was the last time you saw John? Did John say anything? Was he acting strange? What do you think will be waiting for us when we get there?_ But Sherlock was in another place in his mind.

            “Sherlock,” Lestrade said sharply after receiving no answer, snapping the man briefly out of his concentration.

            “Moran will be waiting for us,” he answered only the last question with a sharp tone.

            “And John and Hamish?” the Detective Inspector questioned, worry and doubt dripping from his words, but Sherlock didn’t answer. Sure, he hoped John and Hamish were there and alive, he hoped he was on his way to save both of them, but Sherlock knew those chances were slim. He had spent three years chasing Moran and he was well acquainted with how vivious the man was when it came to killing.

            Sherlock thought back to the morning he had found Hamish’s parents. He had followed Moran, before he really knew who he was, out of a pub in downtown Dublin to a small cottage in the countryside. Sherlock hadn’t heard the screams coming from the house. Hell, maybe there hadn’t been any. But several hours later, after no sign of activity, Sebastian Moran finally emerged from around the back of the house. His previously white t-shirt was now stained with what looked, in the pre-dawn light, like an almost black substance. Even from as far away as Sherlock was, he had no doubt what had happened. He took off running for the blood-soaked man but a black luxury car arrived before he could reach him. Sherlock would never forget the brief look that Moran had given him as he had climbed into the car, one was filled with pure evil and a tint of revenge that actually stopped the detective in his tracks.

            The crime scene had been horrific, even by Sherlock’s standards. Both adults that resided in the home had been stripped and strapped to two separate chairs in the middle of their bedroom, hands and feet bound to the arms and legs of the wooden seats. A single letter had been etched, _carved_ , into the left hand side of each of their chests. A large _S_ was displayed on the male’s chest and an _M_ on the woman’s. The Dublin police had thought it was meant to represent the initials of the couple’s first names, his name being Miach, hers, Sorcha. They were believed to have died for love. But Sherlock knew better, he knew they represented the initials of the man who had committed the crime. What had really troubled and confused the police was what they found beneath the etched letters. The heart of each victim was missing. They had been retracted from the bodies and burned to the point where only ashes remained. _I will burn the heart out of you_ ; Moriarty’s words rang in Sherlock’s memory. This was all for him. Moran knew that he was being followed, and by whom. He was finishing his predecessor’s work. Sherlock did his typical sweep of the house before he ever phoned the police. And what he found hiding behind the shower curtain in a locked washroom was a frightened eight-year-old boy. The child started to cry upon seeing Sherlock.

            “It’s okay,” he said. “You’re safe now.” Sherlock immediately grabbed the boy by the hand and led him out of the house.

            “I want my mum,” the boy cried. Sherlock gently pulled the boy into a small work shed behind the home, crouching down to where he was at eye level.

            “What’s your name, son?” he asked as delicately as he knew how.

            “Hamish,” the boy replied. Sherlock almost collapsed from the unexpected pain that the name had brought.

            “Your parents are gone,” he said bluntly, and then softer, “I’m so sorry, but they’re gone.” Surprisingly, Hamish seemed to understand exactly what it was that Sherlock was trying to say.

            “It was the man, wasn’t it? The one who locked me in the bathroom.”

            “ _He_ locked you in there?” _But why?_ For once, Sherlock didn’t understand, but he didn’t have time to worry about it. There were more important things he needed to accomplish at the moment. That morning was the first time he had contacted his brother after the fall. There was a reason Moran had kept the boy alive, and all Sherlock knew was that he needed to get the child out of Ireland, to somewhere safe. Mycroft promised to send one of his men to pick up Hamish, and the cops were called soon thereafter. “Do not mention me,” he instructed the bright-eyed boy. “I’ll see you again soon, I promise.” The boy only nodded and went to sit on the small front porch. Sherlock had been gone long before the police arrived.

            Now, here he was, finally getting his chance to get up close and personal with the skilled assassin that was clearly more disturbed, more insane, than Jim Moriarty had ever been. Research into the man’s past had told Sherlock that he had been a soldier, and one held in high regard until the one day that he had suddenly gone bad, killing two of his fellow officers. He was a ruthless killer, and a hell of a marksman.

            Sherlock’s thoughts of the past were cut off as they arrived at the warehouse. He had expected a hunt, to be sent on a torturous wild goose chase in order to find John and Hamish. But this was not Moriarty he was dealing with. Sebastian Moran did not play games in the same way. Instead, John and Hamish sat outside, strapped to chairs very similar to the way Hamish’s biological parents had been, broken and bloody. Hamish was awake, tears running down his face. John’s head hung, his chin hitting his chest, unconscious. A tall, built, blonde man stood between the two chairs under a flood light that shone down on the scene from the top of the building, his arms spread out from his sides, pointing a Sig Sauer handgun, almost identical to the one hidden in the detective’s back, at each of the hostages.

            Sherlock stepped out of the passenger side of the car, immediately pulling the gun and aiming directly at Moran’s head. “So we meet again,” the deep voice called through the late night air. Each of the cops surrounding the scene stood behind their car doors aiming at the assassin.

            “You might as well surrender, we have you surrounded,” Lestrade called out. Moran actually laughed out loud, the humor not reaching his eyes. Suddenly, red laser dots appeared on the chest and head of each officer. Only Sherlock remained unmarked.

            “Don’t be so naïve, Detective Inspector. This is between Mr. Holmes and I. We have a few debts to settle.” He turned his attention back to Sherlock. “Do you get it yet? This had been in the works for so long. I thought you would never come out of hiding.” Sherlock remained silent. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to leave the boy alone. Not with him having the same name as the man you were willing to die for.

            “See, that’s where Jim got it wrong. He thought it was your intellect, your reputation of being a genius, of always being right, that you would die to keep in place. He failed to see how extremely _sentimental_ you had become.

            “But I did try to warn you, all those years ago in Ireland. I _will_ finish the job. I will _burn the heart_ out of you.”

            “By killing the two people I care for the most,” Sherlock spoke finally. Moran laughed again.

            “Don’t be so obvious,” he said, sounding eerily like Moriarty. “No, it’s much more fun than that. See, if I just kill them, then I will only be filling you with rage.” A furrow formed between Sherlock’s brows as the soldier spoke. “Don’t you get it? Come on, Mr. Holmes. Don’t you want to play the game?”

            “Don’t do that,” Sherlock finally replied. “You’re not him. This isn’t a game for you. It’s more personal. This is revenge. _You_ got sentimental.”

            “You see, Mr. Holmes, that’s the difference between you and me. I’m a hired assassin, not a sociopath. I am human. And humans get sentimental. I take no shame in the fact that I grew attached to James. But all of that is irrelevant now. I am here to finish a job. To _burn you._ ”

            “Father?” Hamish called quietly, using the parental term for the first time. Sherlock looked instinctively at the boy.

            “I’m here Hamish,” he called as reassuringly as he knew how.

            “Good,” Sebastian interjected. “Now tell him everything is going to be okay. Lie to your son, Mr. Holmes.”

            “Close your eyes, Hamish. It’s all going to be okay. I’m here now. Close your eyes and I’ll see you again soon. I promise.” Hamish, as trusting of Sherlock as he had been that first day, obeyed his father’s command. Sherlock’s expression wavered to one of complete agony for the briefest moment before it returned back to his typical emotionless blank stare.

            “So, have you caught on yet? James led me to believe you were much more clever than this. As I was saying, he believed it was your reputation you would die for. So he stripped you of that. And only in the end did he realize that you would give it all up in order to save the ones that you had grown to love, a feeling, I’m sure, many believed you to be incapable of. You would sacrifice yourself. But you don’t get that option tonight. No, tonight you have to sacrifice something that you actually love more than yourself, impossible as that might seem.” Everything that Moran had said came as no surprise to Sherlock, but that didn’t help the ache in his once cold heart, and the pit at the bottom of his stomach. “So go ahead, Mr. Holmes, make your _choice_. Which of these two do you wish to save?” Moran asked as he gestured with his pistols at each of the captives.

            Impossible. The decision was _utterly impossible_. He had to stall, to think of something, _someway_ , to save both of them. “Well, Mr. Holmes?” Moran called.

            “How do I know that John is even alive?” Sherlock replied. John hadn’t so much as twitched since their arrival. Moran rolled his eyes.

            “Why would I kill him before you got here? It would take away all of my enjoyment if I didn’t get to watch you burn into nothing but a pile of ash as you watched him die.” Sherlock remained silent, lifting a brow in skepticism. “Oh, for Christ’s sake! Call to him. He’s probably on the edge of consciousness now anyway.” Sherlock obeyed like a puppy.

            “John,” he started softly, not wanting to make Hamish nervous. “John, wake up. I need you to wake up. John, please, _please_ hear my voice and wake up.” His voice grew more panicked. “John, are you okay? _Please John, please be alive_ ,” Sherlock had never begged in his life, but he was begging now. When there was still no response, Moran rolled his eyes once more as he pulled smelling salts out of his pocket, swiping it quickly under John’s nose. The doctor jerked awake. “John!” The response was faint, almost inaudible, but the consulting detective heard his best friend say his name once more. Sherlock called out to him again, taking a single step forward, an action which caused Moran to reaffirm his stance, holding his aim a little tighter on Sherlock’s son and on his John, his light, his love. _Sentiment_ , he thought as his eyes pooled with tears.

            “You see, Sherlock, I told you I didn’t kill him. Now, it’s time to make your choice.” Sherlock’s aim for the dead center of Sebastian Moran’s head was unwavering despite the genuine fear that was coursing through him.

            “I cannot!” he snapped his response. How could he possibly choose between the man he loved and the child that he had learned to call his own.

            “Then you will lose them both. Fine by me.” Sherlock’s heart was racing. There was no way for this to end well. No way to do this right. Moran was incredibly trained, his gaze hadn’t left Sherlock’s trigger finger, prepared to fire both of his guns if Sherlock got over eager.

            “Sherlock,” John’s weak voice finally came through the cold night air. “You have to choose, Sherlock. Please.” Immediately Sherlock knew what John was saying, tears began overflowing onto his cheeks. “It’s okay. Just, please. You have to choose.” As Sherlock subconsciously began to shake his head _no_ , refusing to lose his best friend. _I’ve just gotten you back_ , he thought. John simply nodded his head in response. Sherlock closed his eyes tight before speaking.

            “Please,” he said finally, “Please, save the boy. Let him live. Don’t hurt him anymore.” Moran lifted his right hand and pointed the gun at two paramedics that were standing at the back of their ambulance, hands raised in surrender, red dots still on their chests. Sherlock refused to take his eyes off of John.

            “You two,” Moran barked. “Come get the boy and put him in your vehicle. Then get in and drive away.” They slowly did what they were told. Meanwhile, John and Sherlock were saying goodbye to one another with looks of sorrow and love.

            “I can’t say goodbye to you again,” Sherlock said quietly to John after Hamish was a safe distance away.

            Sebastian raised his right hand and motioned to the sharp shooters hidden in the darkness. Immediately, the red dots disappeared from the heads and chests of the surrounding cops. Sherlock heard Donovan let out a sob somewhere in the distance.

            “Let’s play _who has the faster trigger finger_. Can you get a shot off before me? I doubt it. Will I pull the trigger on instinct if I hear you fire your gun? Probably.” Moran took a single step back to where the gun was angled at the back of John’s head. “Say your goodbyes, Mr. Holmes.”

            “Sherlock, I love you,” John called out. “You made the right decision. And I love you.”

            “John. I’m so sorry. I… I love you too.” _Goodbye, John_. It was on his lips but a slight movement on Moran’s part brought Sherlock’s attention back to the marksman.

            And all of a sudden, two shots were fired.

            The only thing that Sherlock Holmes knew in that moment…

            Was that he _hadn’t_ fired first.


	10. Chapter 10

**Ten.**

**_Shock and Denial_ **

            Sherlock’s heart stopped. The entire scene played out in a sort of slow motion before his eyes. Moran’s head jerked sharply, causing him to fly back into the building behind him. He was no longer an issue. Simultaneously, John wilted forward in his chair, still tightly strapped to it. Everything, _everyone_ , stood still. Everyone except Sherlock. He dropped his handgun on the ground and took off in a full sprint for John, falling to his knees before the man he loved. His vision blurred from the streaming tears and his hearing muted due to the adrenaline over working his blood through his system. “John!” he thought he yelled, placing his hands on the man before him. On John’s chest, neck, face. When he pulled them away, he barely noticed the blood that now coated them in its slick red matter. “John!” he tried to yell again. The doctor, slowly, and with great effort, looked up. His own tears making fresh streaks down his dirt and blood covered face.

            “Sher…” he whispered, unable to complete the word. He swallowed hard, and that was when the detective noticed it. The bullet hole that had pierced its way cleanly through the back of John’s neck and out the other side. It had travelled at an almost perfect 45-degree angle. “Sh…” tried again, blood pouring from the wound like a faucet. Sherlock removed his scarf and wrapped it tightly around John’s neck, but it took only moments before it was also dripping with the thick dark liquid. Sherlock thought he heard a voice behind him, coupled with commotion of people running around, possibly Lestrade was the one that shouted, but that wasn’t what was important now. The only thing that Sherlock could focus on was keeping John alive, keeping him breathing, until the ambulance returned.

            “You stay with me, John Watson. Don’t you dare die on me. The ambulance is on the way. Please, _please_ , don’t leave me. I’m not strong like you. I will not survive.” Despite his extensive loss of blood, the light in John’s eyes was bright, really observing Sherlock for the first time in his life. He gave a weak smile, blood now staining his teeth. Sherlock only shook his head, unable to fathom a life where John did not exist. _Why did I ever come back? He would have been safe if I had just stayed away._

            “I love…” John started again, his voice gurgling with the lifeblood that was flooding his throat and mouth. Sherlock let out a sob in a loud burst, placing his hands on both sides of John’s face, leaving streaks of blood in their wake. He pressed his forehead against John’s, closing his eyes for a moment.

            “No,” he whispered. “No, everything is going to be fine. You are going to live. You _have_ to live.” He pulled back and again looked into John’s midnight blue eyes. If he could only make it until the ambulance returned. Why had they not called for two? If Sherlock thought for a second that John would make it alive to the hospital in the back of Lestrade’s car, they would already be on their way. But he didn’t have that long. He needed the paramedics to treat him on the way. _Where the hell is that ambulance_ , he cursed mentally. John smiled sadly at the once emotionless detective.

            “I love you,” he whispered, finally able to get the whole phrase out, blood spilling as he did so. Slowly, not caring who was watching or what they might say, Sherlock stretched forward and kissed John gently on the lips, tasting the rustic bitterness of the blood.

            “I love you more,” Sherlock replied, his mouth still close enough that it was brushing against John’s. The detective didn’t hear the sirens of the finally approaching ambulance or the shouts of the officers around him; he didn’t see the flashing red and blue lights. What he did hear, however, was Doctor John Watson, his best friend, his love, his conductor of light, exhaling his final breath; what he saw was the final stillness of death. And briefly, for the first time in his life, Sherlock refused to trust reality. He refused to believe what it was that he was observing. John could come back from this. He would start breathing again. He had to. “John…” Sherlock thought he whispered, but maybe he yelled it. He didn’t know. He couldn’t see through the tears, he couldn’t breathe from the overwhelming pressure on his chest. _Funny_ , he thought, _I always thought the term ‘broken heart’ was a metaphor._ But that was exactly what was happening to him. His heart was actually breaking.

            When he thought he was strong enough, he stood, his head held high, looking at the people around him for the first time since the whole debacle had started. Sally Donovan and Anderson stood next to each other, tears streaming down their faces, both looking at him with more pity than he believed them capable of. It was the first time Donovan had ever looked at him like a normal human, like something other than a freak. The paramedics rushed to John’s body, that someone had cut loose from the chair. Sherlock walked over and picked up the gun, still lying in the dirt.

“Sherlock,” he heard Greg call out from somewhere beside him, worry lacing the tone of his voice. The DI began walking, hands raised in a careful surrender, towards Sherlock. _He thinks I want to commit suicide._ The detective couldn’t really blame him for this. He had done it before, in a way. But there was no way to bring John back with his own death. _So what would be the point?_ “What are you…” Sherlock walked over, passed where John had just sat and over to the corpse still lying up against the building. Without saying a word of warning, Sherlock fired, emptying the chamber into Moran’s body, causing everyone around him to duck for cover. It wasn’t enough. It didn’t get rid of his rage, rid of his pain. Once he had pulled the trigger several times after he had ran out of ammunition, he threw the gun against the building. There was nothing left for him here. Moran’s men had left when he had sent them the motion. He must have expected something like this was going to happen. He must have anticipated his own death. So there was nobody he needed to go hunting for. As far as he knew, the web stopped at Moran. Though, he would be surprised if some other lackey didn’t step up and try to pick up where the former left off. He turned and began walking away. “Sherlock?” Lestrade called after him.

“I’m going to have to get my own milk,” he said quietly as he passed the Detective Inspector. He was in shock, obviously, because all he could think about was how much he hated to go shopping.

It would take him hours to walk back to the flat, but at this moment, he wasn’t even sure if that’s where he wanted to go. He should go to the hospital and check on Hamish. He was a single father now, something he had absolutely never planned on. A fleeting thought to put Hamish back in foster care was gone as fast as it had come. _No._ Despite how much it might put the boy in danger, the last thing he needed was to be deserted at this moment in time. At the same time, he was relieved that the boy would be in the hospital for a while. It would give Sherlock some time to begin his own recovery. Ignorantly, the detective began to calculate how long he believed it would take him to get over what had just happened, how long it would take his mind to grasp the fact that John had literally died in his arms. _He’s never coming back._ Sherlock smirked, the expression getting nowhere near his eyes. _Seven stages of grief?_ Sherlock was above that. He had his moment of denial, but now he could admit it, he could even say it out loud. “My best friend.” His voice broke with the words, a pain in his chest formulating as Sherlock took a couple breaths to prepare him self for the next part. “John Wat…” The physical pain that rocked his body brought Sherlock to his knees on the side of the road. _No. They rushed him to the hospital. Maybe they could have reanimated him. John was a soldier. A fighter. He could come back from this…_

**_Pain and Guilt_ **

_When you’re dreaming with a broken heart. The waking up is the hardest part. You roll out of bed, and down on your knees. And for a moment you can hardly breath. Wondering was he really here? Is he standing in my room? No he’s not. Cause he’s gone, gone, gone, gone, gone._

The absolute worst week of Sherlock Holmes’s life. That was the only way to describe the days following the shooting at the warehouse. He literally locked himself away in his room, refusing to speak, to eat, or to come out for any reason whatsoever. Hamish was in a medically induced coma to aid his healing process, and so a majority of the time found Sherlock lying in bed, a constant stream of tears running down his face. There were times that he held his breath as long as he could just to feel the burn in his lungs. And on the nights that he actually did sleep, he always woke up reaching to the cold spot next to him, searching frantically for his lost love. The pain in his chest, in his heart, only growing more severe.

            The morning of the funeral was the first time Sherlock had showered since John’s death. He dressed in his best suit, John’s favorite purple shirt underneath, the buttons now fastening with ease after going so long without food. It wasn’t just since John’s death, but since the abduction. But he couldn’t work up enough energy to care about any of that now. Sherlock forced a comb through his curls and sprayed a small amount of John’s favorite cologne on his neck. He was probably just asking for more pain, smelling like John always did, but today he didn’t care.

            There were more people present then he expected, though John had always been better at making friends than Sherlock. Why the doctor had ever chosen to be the detective’s friend, why he had ever fallen in love with Sherlock was beyond any degree of understanding that the genius was capable of. Harry, Mike, Greg, Molly, even a couple buddies from the army had shown up. Sherlock kept his distance from all of them. He did, however, manage a eulogy, walking slowly, like a broken angel, to the front of the small church. Hushed whispers spread throughout the crowd.

            “I told John once, that heroes didn’t exist. And until I met him, I had never doubted those words.” Sherlock paused, tracing his fingers over the outside of his lips while he took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He didn’t want to cry. Not in front of all of these people. “He would have been the first to tell any of you that he was no hero. But let _me_ tell you. He would have been lying.” Deep breath. “He was the bravest, most courageous soul I have ever met, willing to give his life for his country, his friends… For his son…” Sherlock clenched his jaw, a deep crease forming between his brows. “And even for somebody as undeserving as me.” A tear rolled over onto the consulting detective’s cheek. He wiped it away quickly. With a shaky breath, he started again. “All I ever wanted in this life was to protect him. And I fa…” Sherlock stopped again, licking his lips slowly as he tried to get the word out. “I failed.” This wasn’t about him. He didn’t mean to talk about himself.

            “I always knew that John would be an amazing father. And when I proposed to him that we adopt Hamish, it took him only moments to agree. In no time at all, he had embraced the parental mind set without ever looking back. Watching John and Hamish together…” Sherlock paused to look out at the small crowd. “Well, if you never got to witness it, you missed something wonderful.”

            “The greatest thing about John, was his faith…” The detective had to stop, a large lump forming in his throat, stopping him from going further. Tears began to well in his eyes. “His faith…” He tried again, but he couldn’t go forward. He couldn’t talk about John’s unyielding faith. He covered his mouth in a poor attempt to disguise a sob. Mrs. Hudson walked up to the podium slowly, carefully pulling Sherlock into a hug. She was the only person he could ever remember hugging in his life. Maybe his mother had when he was younger, but that had been so many years ago. Slowly, she began to urge him off the stage, tugging gently. “No,” he protested. “No I need to finish this. For him.” He had to let people know that John was strong enough, patient enough, to make Sherlock a better man. Before he could fight too much, Greg was on the stage, picking up the cards that Sherlock had barely looked at.

“The greatest thing about John,” he picked up sadly, giving a sympathetic nod towards the consulting detective and his landlady. Finally, Sherlock went willingly. “was his faith, his unyielding faith, in people, and in me especially,” Lestrade continued. “Some of you don’t know Sherlock,” he changed the speech to keep the confusion to a minimum. “But he has never been the most compassionate, the most sentimental, of people. He considered it a weakness. But John taught him the importance of caring and the importance friends. He taught Sherlock that friends are what protect you. And even though he…” Lestrade and looked up at the blue eyed brunette sadly. “This isn’t true, Sherlock. You didn’t fail him.”

“Read the cards,” Sherlock demanded, his voice still thick with the tears he was trying to hold back. Greg sighed deeply.

“And even though he failed to protect John, Sherlock knows how true that lesson had been. John saved Sherlock, in too many ways to count. John was a good man. He was Sherlock’s best friend. And was the best man he’s ever known.” With that, Greg gave a sad nod, picking up the cards and placing them in his jacket pocket before descending the stairs.

After the service, Sherlock went to the hospital to check on Hamish. No change really, but the boy was healing, which was a plus. He wanted things to be good for his son. He knew it would take an immense amount of time, and more than likely a large proportion of that would be spent with a psychiatrist, but the consulting detective believed that maybe, if _he_ could get past this grief that he was feeling, rid himself of that constant ache in his chest, then things could go back to normal. Sherlock scowled at the thought. Maybe he was still in denial. Of course he couldn’t just _go back_. He had lost his partner, in every definition of the word. He had allowed himself to care. To grow attached. To be _sentimental._ And now here he was, a single father, completely and utterly alone, and for once, he hated the feeling.

**_Anger_ **

            _Keep clear of him. He’s gone mental_. That’s what people were saying about him. He didn’t need for them to actually whisper the words behind his back. He could _hear_ them thinking it. And really he couldn’t blame them. He had lost control of all of his emotions, giving way to the fear, the pain, and the torture, of life without John Watson. Molly had offered to buy him milk one day after he had complained in the lab. And instead of allowing her to make the kind gesture, or even saying ‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ Sherlock had screamed at her. He couldn’t remember now what it was that he had even said. It was as if he had gone through a rage blackout. But Lestrade had called him that evening, trying to contain his own anger.

            “I think it’s best if you take a leave of absence,” Lestrade had said as kindly as possible.

            “I don’t actually work for you, you do realize that,” Sherlock had snapped. He couldn’t be fired or suspended from his work and research.

            “I will not be calling you for your assistance on a case. And I would appreciate it if you would stay clear of the lab, at least while Molly is working. She’s only ever tried to help you and she always comes home upset after you’ve come to do your research.” Sherlock sighed in exasperation. “It’s not a request, Sherlock. We’ll be by to visit, to see how you’re getting on. But work is not providing the distraction for you that it normally does. It just makes you angry.” Sherlock hung up, frustrated with the DI. A part of him knew that Lestrade was right, but in this moment, it wasn’t the dominant part.

            Visiting Hamish was almost entirely out of the question. The only thing Sherlock saw when he looked at the broken eleven-year-old boy on the bed was a combination of blind accusatory rage and a deafeningly amount of guilt. If he hadn’t been there, if he hadn’t been taken by Moran’s men, John would still be alive. If Sherlock hadn’t have had to choose Hamish, John would be with him in his bed right now. Maybe they could have even discussed their relationship further. But thinking on that was pointless now. At the same time, Sherlock couldn’t handle the guilt he felt when he looked at the bandages over Hamish’s chest. They could do skin grafts. They could try to cover the scars, the inscription, with layers of skin, but it would be a difficult procedure, and even then, there may still be evidence of the message that lie underneath.

            Sherlock had tried to visit his son, the term growing on him over time, immediately after John’s death. He knew he needed to be the one to tell the boy. And he had been. But the moment Hamish had begun crying was when Sherlock really got angry. Nobody else, in Sherlock’s grieving mind, had the right to be sad. Nobody had known John, had _loved_ John, like he had. Doing everything in his power to not yell at Hamish, Sherlock just sat in one of the chairs in the intensive care room and waited for his son to fall asleep. After that day, he only visited at night, when Hamish was more likely to be asleep. It was easier that way. Sherlock could still look after him without having to interact.

            The worst part in all of this was knowing the emotions that he was feeling, not from experience, but from books and what John had taught him, and not being able to stop them. He knew that he was angry at the world, and he even knew why. But what Sherlock didn’t know was how to hurry along the process. He didn’t like being a prisoner to his grief, but what he hated even more than that, was how everybody watched him. Mrs. Hudson, Molly, even Mycroft. They were constantly around, trying to see if there was anything they could do to help. More than once Sherlock had informed them that the best way they could help was to leave him the bloody hell alone. Hamish needed their attention more than he did.

**_Bargaining_ **

            When Sherlock finally got to where he wasn’t snapping at people for the slightest offenses, he began to bury himself in his work. He entered into his attempt to fill the void that had been left by John. Basically, he was becoming a higher functioning version of his former self. He rarely slept, he almost never ate, and if there was a span of more than a few hours between cases, he grew over anxious and incredibly irritable. There had to be something out there that he could focus on to keep him distracted long enough for his grief to pass.

            After a devastatingly dull case one afternoon, a man passing out flyers on the street confronted him. Normally, Sherlock wouldn’t even glance at the piece of paper before tossing it into the rubbish, but that desperation for something distracting still lingered. He originally looked at it to deduce the type of paper, the ink they used, what their message was about and why their flyer wouldn’t actually attract any people. _A religious group,_ he thought. _Typical._ He envied those who were able to bury their grief within their religion, those that could pray to their god and feel a false sense of comfort. John had been somewhat religious, though he and Sherlock had never discussed the matter. Maybe that was how John had survived so long, had stayed so strong, after Sherlock’s “death”. Maybe he had prayed.

            Sherlock stopped in the middle of the street, taking a deep breath and exhaling in a huff. How in the hell did one even begin a prayer? The consulting detective raced back to the flat and up the stairs to Hamish’s room. It looked so normal, exactly the way he and John had left it. Sherlock sat on the bed, holding a tiny stuffed red dragon in his arms. Alone is what he was. But he had been wrong all those years ago. Alone didn’t protect him. It just protected those that he cared most for.

            Sitting alone on the bed, Sherlock tried to channel John. What would John do? How would John pray? His face scrunched in a combination of frustration and confusion. _God,_ he thought, causing him to frown more. Never had he felt quite so awkward in his life. _I know I can’t have John back. Because that would be scientifically impossible, you see._ Sherlock had to stop his thoughts. Was he explaining science to God?  _Look, I just… I need to be able to move on. Hamish will be coming home in a couple of weeks and I need to be past this… past this constant agony. This pain in my chest that never goes away._ Sherlock rubbed his chest, unknowingly mirroring John’s actions after the fall. _I don’t know what I can offer you,_ he continued to pray. _I don’t know what you would want from me. But please, help me move on from this._ Sherlock took a deep breath as he stood, still holding the plush dragon. On his way out he stopped in the doorway. _And tell John that I miss him._

**_Depression and Sorrow_ **

_When you’re dreaming with a broken heart. The giving up is the hardest part. He takes you in, with those crying eyes. And all at once, you have to say goodbye. Wondering could you stay my love? Will you wake up by my side? No he can’t. Cause he’s gone, gone, gone, gone, gone._

            If Sherlock thought things would begin to get better, he was dead wrong. Hamish finally was released from the hospital, a permanent bandage over his chest. And though he and Sherlock lived in the same flat, words were hardly ever spoken between the two. People stopped by regularly, but it did little good. Hamish was as depressed by the loss of his dad as Sherlock was by the loss of his… well, his John. And what made it even worse was that Sherlock had no idea how to help the boy. Sentiment wasn’t his area. He didn’t know how to console. He didn’t know how to comfort. Hell, he couldn’t even help himself, how was he supposed to help the boy. Instead, he just played his violin while Hamish sat on the couch, holding his stuffed dragon.

            The two men residing in 221B Baker Street continued in this fashion for close to two weeks. Little or no speech. Random visitors. The only thing Sherlock _did_ do was make sure that Hamish was fed. No, the detective didn’t bother eating, himself, but the child needed food. And lots of it. It had been days that he had gone without any kind of nourishment while he had been tied up. Then the weeks that he was in the medically induced coma. And Sherlock found out quickly that the boy wouldn’t eat unless his Father placed the food in front of him. So, that’s what Sherlock did. He didn’t know how else to help. He didn’t know how to make things better, how to help them both heal.

            Nights in the flat were the worst. When Hamish wasn’t lying in bed all night crying, he was waking up from nightmares. Sherlock hadn’t slept in what felt like over a week and his mind was becoming slow because of it. He couldn’t process the most basic of information, his skill for deduction was severely lacking, and his memory was almost non-existent. All he could think about, the only thing his mind would focus on was the emptiness that surrounded him. The void that filled his chest, leaving a giant, aching hole. He was sad constantly. Grey days depressed him as much as the sunny ones. The quiet was too much, but he couldn’t stand the noise. Sherlock was stuck within his collapsing mind filled with grief.

            But regardless of how tired he was, how numb he was to any physical sensations, Sherlock couldn’t shut his brain down completely. He couldn’t turn off the memories. He couldn’t _forget_. And he remembered _everything_ when it came to John. How they had first met, moved in together. The first case they worked. The detective could recall the number of women John had dated, though he couldn’t care less what their names had been. He remembered the several occasions that John had risked his life for Sherlock, had killed for him. But mostly, the detective focused on the final few days, the pain that the doctor had been in while watching their son strapped to a chair being tortured. Sherlock couldn’t solve it; he couldn’t put the pieces together. Because, in the end, there hadn’t been any pieces to put together. Moran didn’t play the way Moriarty had. It wasn’t about the cleverness of the case, but rather the impact of the revenge. Moran’s only focus had been returning the pain that Sherlock had somehow caused in being a part of Moriarty’s death.

            Finally, one night, Sherlock had reached his limit on the grief, on the constant mental torture that was raging on within his mind. He needed an escape. And with one text to his friends in the homeless network, he had just the supply that he needed for the quick slip into total mental silence. Wrapping the wide green rubber strap around his upper arm, using his teeth to pull it tight. He rubbed the crook of his inner arm, finding the vein, his favorite vein, the one he had used most often in the past. Back before he met John. Before he had a reason to be better. And now that reason was gone. Placing the tip of the heroin needle at his skin, Sherlock applied a small amount of pressure breaking through the flesh, feeling the familiar sting of the needle entering the vein. _Deep breath._ Just as he was about to push the plunger into the syringe, his bedroom door opened.

            “Father?” It was the first time Hamish had spoken to him, approached him, since his return from the hospital. Sherlock’s face screwed into a frown, tears already coming to his eyes. “Father? I had a nightmare. Can I…” Before John’s death, there wouldn’t have been a question. The boy would’ve simply slipped into their room and crawled in bed with them. It had happened enough times during their month or so that they had all been together. _Is that all it had been?_ All of his hiding, his secrecy, all to protect John, and in they end, they had only gotten a month together.

            Sherlock subtly pulled the needle from his arm, letting it drop into the bin between his feet. He turned to look at Hamish, smiling weakly as his hand loosened the rubber strap around his arm. “Of course, Son, come get in bed. I’m just going to change really quickly, but you crawl up here into Dad’s spot and make yourself comfortable.” Slipping off into the washroom, Sherlock let the cold water run in the sink, splashing some over his face. When he looked into the mirror again, he could imagine how John would have reacted. Anger. Disappointment. Shame. The consulting detective still had a reason to be strong, to be better. He had someone that he needed to be good for. Just because it wasn’t John didn’t excuse his actions. With deep, steadying breaths, he changed into a t-shirt, one of John’s old shirts, and loose pants and returned to the bedroom where his son was already asleep on his bed. Sherlock smiled lightly before climbing in. His mind wasn’t filled with silence, like he had been searching for. But it was filled with concern. Concern for the boy. How he would recover from all of this. How he would grow up without the psychological instabilities. He would need someone there to be strong for him. And the only option he had was Sherlock. The man took a deep, stabilizing breath as he let his eyes drift closed. He didn’t expect sleep to come, but it did. He didn’t expect the dreams to stay away, but they did. Sherlock slept soundly with the small body of his son next to him, Hamish’s presence providing a comfort that the detective had desperately been missing.

**_Testing and Reconstruction_ **

_Now do I have to fall asleep with roses in my hands? Do I have to fall asleep with roses in my hands? Do I have to fall asleep with roses in my hands? Do I have to fall asleep with roses in my, roses in my hands? Would you get them if I did? No you won’t. Cause you’re gone, gone, gone, gone, gone._

Weeks turned to months and slowly Sherlock learned how to live without John in his life. It was difficult, to say the least. There were still entire days where he didn’t speak, spending the majority of his time composing on the violin instead. But those days became fewer and fewer. Instead, he decided to pour as much of his attention into his son as possible. He wanted to make John proud, if that were possible, if he were still here _to_ make proud. This was never what Sherlock had intended when adopting the boy. John was supposed to be the father, the caregiver, not Sherlock. He was supposed to figure out how Hamish could lead them to Sebastian Moran. But now that ship had sailed. Moran was dead, as was John, and now all that was left was the unsentimental, anti-social, consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, and the tortured, scarred, both physically and mentally, boy Hamish.

            But the adapting father started by hiring a therapist for Hamish. He even attended a few of the sessions to make sure the doctor was asking adequate questions, delving into the parts of the boy’s mind that truly needed the help. These sessions often ended with a flustered psychiatrist and an annoyed and bored detective. Hamish thought it was entertaining, to say the least. He loved watching his father deduce, watching him in action. In fact, one morning when they met with one of the therapists, Sherlock was able to tell the doctor that not only had he not slept the night before, but he was still drunk, hadn’t showered, and had a woman hiding in his small private restroom. Sherlock had pulled his son out in a great state of annoyance while Hamish had praised him the way John had once. “That was… amazing,” Hamish had said when the woman stepped through a doorway in the back just as they were leaving. “How did you know about that?!” It was the first time the boy had been excited since his returned home. And it was the first time Sherlock had smiled, though the ache in his chest flared.

            Their other focus was the skin grafts. It was a long, long, drawn out process, taking thin healthy layers of skin from Hamish’s thighs or backside. It meant that the boy had a perpetual wrap around his chest as the healing took place. They took weekly visits to the doctor for check ups and it actually increased the amount of time that they spent at the therapist, to watch for additional signs of depression. Sherlock was worried that he was piling too much onto an eleven-year-old boy. But having to live, to grow up, with that message etched into his skin. No. It was just too much for either of them to have to bear. Sherlock would always be reminded that he was the cause in all of this. This was his fault. He couldn’t leave Moran alone. He couldn’t leave _Hamish_ alone. He couldn’t stay hidden in the shadows. And now…. Now he had to rebuild his entire world from scratch.

            Sherlock hired the best tutors in London at the beginning of the next school year. There was no way he was sending Hamish back to any kind of institution. Not unless the boy asked for it. And even then, there would have to be security like crazy. Somehow, over the past six months or so, the detective had become not just a father, but a dad. He worried about Hamish. He hovered and he was overprotective and at times overbearing. But the people surrounding them found it… endearing. Greg and Molly came over frequently to check on the pair. Mrs. Hudson spent more time upstairs, cleaning and fixing them meals. It was the only way that any of them could be sure that both of Sherlock and Hamish were getting enough to eat. Sally and Anderson even came to check on the residents of flat 221B Baker Street. Mycroft came occasionally, never saying much, but Sherlock knew that, despite their differences, his older brother actually worried. But after a while, even the visitors died out, and Sherlock and Hamish were left to rebuild their lives together.

**_Acceptance                                                                                                                          21 Feb 2014_ **

_When you’re dreaming with a broken heart. The waking up is the hardest part._

            Sherlock awoke that morning, reaching for the cool side of the bed. He sighed heavily, no longer waiting to see if John would walk out of the bathroom or closet. No longer expecting to see the man he loved come around every corner. Unlike Sherlock’s suicide years before, John’s death was real. He wasn’t coming back. And the detective was doing his best to move on with the life he had left. He rolled out of bed, making his way for the bathroom to shower and start getting ready for the festivities that they had planned later that day.

            “Father!” Hamish came bursting in through the bedroom door a little while later on the morning of his twelfth birthday. Sherlock peeked out of the bathroom door as his son began bouncing on his bed. The smile that crossed the father’s face hit his light blue eyes, making them sparkle like the boy’s.

            “Happy birthday, Hamish!” he called as he finished getting dressed. “Are you excited for your party today?” It was a redundant question, one with a painfully clear answer. But this day would be bittersweet for Sherlock. On the one hand, the pair of them had made it through another year. Hamish’s chest had a large patch over it. But it no longer read GET SHERLOCK. He smiled and laughed like any other boy of his age. But at the same time, it was their first big celebration without John. The ache in Sherlock’s chest was dull, but constant. He missed John today, not that he didn’t miss him every day. But so much about _this_ particular day reminded him of his partner.

            Finally, Sherlock made his way to the kitchen, with Hamish bouncing along beside him. Mixing the batter and turning on the stove, he instructed his son to start getting the lounge ready for the guests who would be arriving later that afternoon. He poured the pancake batter into the skillet and was careful to get them right this time. No burning. No mess. He wanted this day to go as smooth as possible. As he finished making breakfast, setting aside a bowl of fresh fruit that Mrs. Hudson had picked up for them at the market, Sherlock called Hamish in to the table. The boy smiled widely.

            “They look much better than last time.” Sherlock returned the grin as he joined his son at the table. The boy took a quick bite and his eyes grew wide. Apparently pancakes were still his favorite food.

            “Um…” Sherlock started awkwardly. “I… I’m sorry. That your dad couldn’t be here with us today. I know that you loved him. And that he loved you. He would have wanted to be here, for all of it. To see you grow up into a young man. He would have been better at all of this than I am.” The detective tried to keep it quick to keep the mood from getting too depressed. To keep himself from getting too emotional.

            “I know, Father. But I’m glad I have you here.”


End file.
